Salam
by WitchGirl
Summary: A Muslim woman's brutal murder triggers a bloody chain of events for Greg and Nick as they and 22 others are held hostage until the murderer confesses. As Sara uses her broken Arabic to negotiate, Nick and Greg learn more about their supposed enemies.
1. The Beginning

Salam

**Summary:** While investigating the brutal murder of a Muslim woman, Nick and Greg find themselves caught in a hostage situation and Sara is enlisted as a negotiator. Dealing with racism, hate and ignorance, the team has to make sure everyone comes out of this alive. Team friendship.

**About the rating:** This fic is rated for language, violence and political issues which are discussed very candidly. Take those things away, and it would be rated K.

**_Author's Note:_** I apologize for the long proviso listed below. If you want, you can skip it, but don't shout flaming political opinions in the reviews please. In a nutshell, it says "**keep an open mind and know that opinions voiced by characters are not shared by me. This is a work of FICTION.**" If you do yell at me calling me racist or something, I will just assume you skipped the proviso and you will be ignored.

**PROVISO:** The statements coming from characters in this story may seem offensive to certain people. Please understand that the views expressed by the characters are not necessarily views shared by the author. Also understand that this story deals with some touchy politics, specifically the Palestinian/Israeli conflict. This story is not meant to show a bias towards either side of the conflict. It is not meant to offend Jews or Muslims, Israelis or Arabs. This piece serves solely as a commentary on hatred and the animosity the conflict has inspired in all parties. It is not a personal statement about the conflict itself. Polar opinions on the conflict, on governments and officials, and against a specific race, religion or political party are expressed by the characters, but as stated previously are **_not_ **necessarily shared by the author.

Please note that the stories told by the characters are completely fictional and did not happen. However, also note that any historical references and statistics are as accurate as possible. Also understand that many Israelis and Palestinians have lost their lives in this conflict, a high percentage of them children and innocent civilians who were raising no threat. In addition to that, internationals who visit Israel or any of the occupied territories have also lost their lives needlessly. Most of them are humanitarians who were trying to help. This story is to underline the tragedy of the conflict and to analyze how it has impacted the individual Palestinian, Israeli, American or international. Again, it is not meant to be a statement on the conflict itself. If you would however wish to discuss the conflict, by all means e-mail me and we can talk.

It is important to read this story, and to think of the conflict in general, with an open mind. I do not want you to come into this story and read it favoring one side over the other. There have been terrorist attacks and suicide bombers by Palestinians against Israelis, and by Israelis against Palestinians. If this story is saying anything, it is that we need to learn to understand each other and shoulder the blame collectively rather than continue in a circle of violence. _If this story serves any purpose, it is to promote a deeper understanding of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and to encourage people to learn more about it. It is also a statement **against **racism of any kind, and to show that anyone can be a perpetrator and everyone can be a victim._

Thank you for your time, now that all that is out of the way, enjoy the story.

* * *

_"For a long time I've been operating from a certain core assumption that we are all essentially the same inside, and that our differences are by and large situational. That goes for everybody— Bush, Bin Laden, Tony Blair, me, you… Palestinians, everybody of any particular religion. I know there is a good chance that this assumption actually is false. But it's convenient, because it always leads to questions about the way privilege shelters people from the consequences of their actions. It's also convenient because it leads to some level of forgiveness, whether justified or not." _

**Rachel Corrie, ****April 10 1979**** — ****March 16 2003**

* * *

It had started like any other day. They all went into work. Grissom handed out assignments. Nick and Sara had a 419 out on the strip. Greg was given the honor of dealing with a robbery at a convenience store. Meanwhile, Catherine, Warrick and Grissom were going to handle a triple homicide down in Henderson. 

It had all seemed fairly routine. They would go out, process the scenes, gather the evidence, come back, work through what they had and try to piece together what happened, with the help of the fine Las Vegas detectives. None of them could even guess that it would be Nick and Sara's case that would transform this average night into a nightmare.

Her name was Farah Ibrahim. Sara kneeled down next to her corpse and looked sadly into her dead brown eyes.

"TOD is about four hours ago," David Phillips said as he straightened up. "Looks like she was beaten to death."

"Well I could have told you that…" Sara muttered.

David glared at her. "I can give you a more exact COD later… Ligature marks on her neck and wrists… Possible sexual assault. I'll let you know." He rose to his feet and left Sara to process. She took photos of the body, which was covered in bruises and cuts. Her shoulder seemed dislocated. Her brown hair was a mess and her clothes were torn and revealed one of her breasts. Her black bra had a torn strap and her skirt was around her knees. She was covered in dirt and looked as if she'd been thrown to the ground.

Sara looked at the corpse's hands and took fingernail scrapings, hoping this woman fought back. Although judging by the marks on her hands, she was probably tied up. There was a blood pool by her head, but it was small, which only underlined Sara's body dump theory.

Nick approached her carrying a purse. Sara cocked an eyebrow. "Oh Nick, that really doesn't go with your outfit."

He gave her a look that said 'ha ha' before he explained. "Found this a ways down the road. Looks to belong to our vic." He pulled out a wallet. "Farah Ibrahim?"

"That's her," Sara said. "According to her ID. Found it in her pocket."

"Yeah…" said Nick as he looked at another card. "Says here she's part of the… Joint Faiths for Peace Organization… Hey, I've heard of this, their headquarters aren't far from here. They lobby for tolerance and education, trying to teach people about Islam and the conflict in the Middle East."

"That's impressive," Sara said. "Unfortunately, it's also motive." She shook her head sadly. "This looks like a hate crime to me."

"You could be right," Nick said, squatting down on the opposite side of the body. "I mean, it looks kind of personal. Some of this bruising seems to be post mortem… Why kick a girl after she's dead unless you really had something against her?"

Brass came up from behind them looking at his notes. "I talked to the folks who found her… Honeymooners on their way out of Caesar's Palace. They said a car drove by and just tossed her out without even stopping."

"Son of a bitch…" Nick muttered, shaking his head. "They must have thrown her purse out the window. But they didn't even take money out of her wallet."

"Maybe they didn't think it was worth it," Sara murmured. She looked down sympathetically at the corpse. "She was pretty, wasn't she?" She frowned as something caught her eye a few feet away. Her eyes narrowed as she swallowed. "Hijab."

"Gazoontite," Brass said.

Sara blinked up at him. "What? No. Hijab— It's the Muslim head scarf. I'm guessing that cloth over there is hers. She was devout." Sara rose to her feet and picked up the scarf with her gloved hands. "It's torn… There are hairs on it, probably hers …" She looked closely at one of the hairs. "Roots," she said. "Probably pulled off with the scarf. Someone ripped this from her head."

Nick pulled out a cell phone from her purse. "Two missed calls from 'Hassan.' Who wants to bet that's her husband?"

"It's _Ha_ssan," Sara corrected automatically as she bagged the hairs.

Nick cocked an eyebrow. "What?" he deadpanned.

She looked up at him. "The stress is on the first syllable. Not Ha_ssan_. _Ha_ssan."

"OK…" Nick said. "_Ha_ssan then. Wait a minute… They're not both from him. One is from Noah."

"Hassan is the husband," Sara said.

"What makes you so sure?" Nick asked.

"Noah isn't an Arabic name," Sara explained. She rose and took the phone out of Nick's hands and frowned at it. "You should check up on both of them. Her address is on her driver's license, Brass and I can handle that."

"OK…" Nick said. "I'll take the evidence back to the lab and call this Noah guy and figure out how he knows her."

"By the name, my bet is he's from the JFP," Sara said.

Nick nodded. "Good guess, I'll let you know."

* * *

It didn't take Sara and Brass long to find her home. It was only a ten minute drive from the strip. It was an old and dilapidated apartment building with a bad cockroach problem that Sara tried to ignore. They stood outside the door on a ratty door mat as they waited for an answer from someone inside. 

A man answered the door bouncing a toddler on his shoulder who was sucking on a lollypop. She stared at Sara with large curious eyes, her dark brown hair delicately wispy. Sara smiled at her, then looked at the man.

"Mr. Ibrahim?" Sara assumed.

He nodded, looking at the two of them curiously. "Yes… Hassan Ibrahim. And you are?"

Brass flashed his badge. "I'm Captain Brass, this is Sara Sidle from the Crime Lab."

Hassan began shaking his head slowly. "Oh no, I'm sorry, you're wrong, I've been with my children all night, I couldn't have done anything."

"No, sir," Brass said quickly. "We're actually here about your wife, Farah?"

Hassan frowned. "Farah? Oh now I know you're mistaken, she's a solid member of the community, she would never do anything to—"

"Mr. Ibrahim," Sara interrupted quickly. "Could you maybe put your daughter down for a moment so we can speak with you?"

Hassan looked shocked at his daughter before whispering in her ear in Arabic. She giggled and struggled in his grip until he let her down and she scampered back into the house, where two other children were laughing loudly. He looked back up at Brass and Sara. "It wouldn't have mattered, she doesn't speak English yet anyways."

"I'm sorry to tell you this," Sara began slowly, "but your wife was found on the side of the strip… She's dead."

Hassan simply stood there, his gaze stony as he nodded. "OK… Thank you…" He tried to close the door, but Brass stopped him.

"We're going to have to ask you a few questions about your wife," Brass said.

Hassan blinked at him. "What? Oh. Yes. Of course…"

"Aren't you curious to know how she died?" Sara asked, confused at his seemingly calm and dazed reaction.

Hassan looked very tired, but he didn't take his eyes off Sara. "Miss… Sidle, is it? You have to understand. I am Palestinian. I grew up in Gaza. Growing up, death wasn't some ambiguous far off nightmare. It was omnipresent. It was everyday life. I watched my parents shot and killed by Israeli forces when I was sixteen, during the first intifada. It was then that I swore I would get out of there. I damn near died trying, but I made it. Do you know how hard it is to escape an occupied territory, Miss Sidle? After the al-Aqsa intifada began I knew I needed to get out of there. It cost me everything I had, and some great help from some very kind human rights activists, but I finally got out of that place. I saw death every day over there. Do not mistake my expression for one of apathy, Miss Sidle. My emotions run far deeper than my eyes will betray." He looked at Brass and heaved a sigh. "I'll do what I can to help," he said. "But I moved to America to _escape_ death only to find that it followed me here. If you think I killed my wife, then you are wrong."

Sara was stunned as she blinked at the man, her mouth partly open, obviously deeply affected by his words.

Brass, on the other hand, remained detached. "When did you last see your wife, Mr. Ibrahim?"

Hassan closed his eyes, remembering. "She left here around six o'clock, after a large meal with the children. She was on her way to celebrate the Eid with her sister, Amira, and her family."

"Her sister?" Brass called.

"Yes," Hassan said. "Amira Osman and her husband, Kareem."

Brass wrote it down. "Could you tell me where they live?"

Hassan nodded. "Yes, they're right downstairs… Apartment 26."

"And you were here," Brass said. "With the children?"

Hassan nodded. "Yes, I assure you. It was something Farah insisted upon. She liked spending time alone with her sister every week or so. It was just what she did, so I stayed home and watched the kids."

"Did you or your wife receive any threats recently or have any enemies?" Brass continued.

Hassan began to shake his head then stopped. His eyes looked far away. "There is a man… His name is Noah, he calls Farah constantly. He's always trying to persuade her to join his group. He calls it 'Joint Faiths for Peace.' I forbid her from talking to him. He would frighten her at times. I think… I think he is trying to turn her against her country, and her faith."

"Sir…" Brass began. "With all due respect, that is a non-violent organization which was established to promote knowledge of the conflict in the Middle East."

Hassan's eyes narrowed at Brass angrily. " 'Conflict in the Middle East…' You speak of it like it is something far from you, Captain Brass, something that exists in a fairy world. Vague and symbolic. It is not like this for me. What you call a 'conflict' is a massacre. And what you call 'non-violent organizations' are the most dangerous of terrorist sects. Americans today accuse Islam of being a violent, backwards religion. They say that we are evil. But evil begets evil, Captain. America supports Israel. My family was killed by guns bought on their coin. My brother was crushed by a tank manufactured in _this country_. And for what? Was he a terrorist? He was cradling the body of his _seven-year-old son_. He had been shot dead on his way to _school_. Was _he_ a terrorist? My brother, he just wanted to take his son's body home, to bury him. They told him to move, to leave the boy. When he didn't, they advanced. Do not speak to me about _non-violent organizations _and_ peace_, Captain Brass. It has been my experience that there are no such things. There is no such thing as progress without violence. No one will listen to you. And humanity is incapable of peace."

He made to close the door when Sara caught it and said something Brass didn't understand. Hassan was caught off guard. She looked at him with pleading eyes. "Min fadlak?"

Slowly, Hassan nodded and opened the door again. Sara beamed at him and bowed her head. "Shokran," she whispered.

He looked at Brass. "If you need anything more from me," he said to him coldly. "You will have _her_ speak with me. Are we done here?"

Brass swallowed. He wasn't sure what it was about the man that intimidated him. It might have been his size, for he was fairly tall and broad shouldered. Or it could have been that glint of death in his eyes for a man who had seen so much of it that it had become a part of him. But whatever it was, Brass was uneasy in his presence. "Yes, I think we are. Go back to your children. We will call you when we have more information."

Hassan nodded, giving Sara one last fleeting glance before disappearing behind the chipped and faded wooden door. As they walked down the hall, Brass looked at Sara curiously.

"Opinionated, isn't he?" Brass muttered.

"Well you would be too if you grew up in a war zone," Sara pointed out.

"What did you say to him?"

Sara shrugged. "I think I said 'May God bless you…' But I'm not sure. I might have said 'May God eat you.' It's been a while. Apparently, I got some kind of message across. I said please and thank you when he reacted."

"Where did you learn that?" Brass asked as they descended the stairs.

"My roommate in college," Sara explained. "She was from Dubai. Very rich, and a very strict Muslim. We didn't get along at first. I thought she was a stuck up airhead and she thought I was a racist nerd. Then I found she was in my advanced physics class and it wasn't her money that got her into Harvard after all. We bonded over a conversation of quantum theory and she taught me a lot about her culture. It inspired me to take a semester in Cairo, where I stayed with an Egyptian family who were nothing but sweet to me, and very amusing at times."

"So you know Arabic?" Brass sounded surprised.

Sara rolled her eyes. "No, my roommate just taught me a few helpful phrases. And as the Egyptian family constantly pointed out, I have a terrible accent. I can direct a taxi cab, introduce myself, and tell someone to fuck off, but beyond that, I'm pretty hopeless."

Brass smiled. "And here I was all impressed that you knew such a complicated language."

"It's not that complicated," Sara explained as they came up to apartment 26. "I mean, for English speakers, sure it is. New alphabet, new sounds, completely different root words than we're used to… but how do you think it's like for them to learn English? It's the exact same. And let me tell you, the Egyptian family I stayed with put me to shame with their fantastic English grammar."

Brass knocked on the door and nodded. "I guess you're right," he said.

No one answered for a long time. Brass and Sara exchanged looks before listening in on the door. Brass tried again. "Las Vegas PD, open up!" he called.

Still no answer.

"Maybe they're not home?" Sara suggested.

"Or maybe they ditched town after killing Farah," Brass muttered.

"Regardless, we don't have a warrant," Sara said. "So why don't we just head back and leave them a phone message. Come back later or something."

Brass agreed and they headed back outside.

* * *

When Nick returned to the lab, he was ambushed by Greg who caught up with him in the hall. 

"Hey," he said quickly. "You need help with your case?"

Nick frowned at him as he continued to walk down the hall. "Why?" he said. "What's wrong with yours?"

"Dude, it was a shop owner trying to scam his insurance companies," Greg said. "The idiot didn't even think to turn off his security cameras. I got the whole thing showing how he stole the money and then rang the silent alarm. He even broke his own window. World's Dumbest Criminals, here he comes."

Nick cracked a smile and shrugged. "Grissom doesn't have you on another case?"

"As of yet, he's still out on that triple homicide with Catherine and Warrick," Greg said. "So I'm free until they get back."

"Great, you can help me track down this Noah guy," Nick said. "Farah Ibrahim's planner said that the JFP was having a late night celebration tonight in honor of the Muslim Eid."

Greg blinked at him. "I don't know what that is," he said. "But do you want me to check out the party?"

Nick nodded. "I'll go with you as soon as I call this Noah guy. Do me a favor, go check with Doc Robbins on the body, would you?"

Greg saluted him and jogged off down the hall, rounding the corner and entering the autopsy room where he found Dr. Robbins cracking a corpse's chest. He looked up upon Greg's entrance.

"I thought this was Nick's case," he said.

Greg nodded. "Yeah, I'm helping out now. So what happened to her?"

"Well I just got my paws on her twenty minutes ago…" he muttered staring down at her. "But COD seems to be multiple blunt force traumas to the head."

"And now you're cracking her chest?" Greg noted. Dr. Robbins held up an evidence jar. Greg squinted at it as he took it from him. "Is that skin?"

"I found it in her molars," Dr. Robbins explained. "I don't think it's hers. I figured if this was in there, maybe she swallowed something else."

"You think she bit her attacker?" Greg said. "But how did she get it in her molars?"

"He'd have to be pretty far in her mouth for her to do that…" Dr. Robbins began slowly.

At first, Greg frowned. "But why shove your fist in…" As realization dawned he trailed off and his features grew hard. "Ouch."

"For her or for him?" Dr. Robbins asked.

"Both," Greg said. "A girl snapping shut on a guy like that? That's got to make him angry."

"Mm hm," Dr. Robbins said. "It probably incited this hit here…" He pointed at a large bump on the side of her head. "It came from a fist most likely, but the trajectory says it came from above her. After that, it looks like a free-for-all… Kicks in the abdomen, between the legs, on the neck and head, multiple shoe impressions… I don't think this was one person."

"Shit…" Greg muttered, suddenly having disturbing memories flooding the back of his mind's eye. He shook them off and tried to focus on the present. "Uh… between the legs? So we know this was a sexual assault because of the skin in her teeth, but did they—"

"The genital area is bruised from a physical assault," Dr. Robbins said, "but there's also tearing of the labia as well as lubricant on her anus. No spermicide or sperm in either the vaginal vault or rectum however and judging by the severe trauma to her uterine wall and anal cavity, it was probably a foreign object."

Greg shook his head. "Is there anything they _didn't_ do to her?"

Dr. Robbins frowned, thinking. "They didn't shoot her," he said with a shrug. "Or use any weapon other than their hands and feet… Except maybe a baseball bat, or some other such cylindrical object… You see the indentation here on her side?"

Greg nodded. "Great. I'll relate all this to Nick. Page me if you find anything in her stomach."

"Will do," Dr. Robbins said as Greg skipped off.

Greg found Nick in the AV lab. He had picked up a phone and was dialing the number on Farah Ibrahim's cell phone.

"You haven't done that yet?" Greg said surprised. "I got a full report from Doc Robbins already."

"Yeah, well I needed coffee," Nick snapped.

Greg smirked and held up his hands. "Yeah, I can tell."

Nick rolled his eyes as the phone continued to ring.

"Hello?" The voice was laughing and there was Middle Eastern music playing loudly in the background.

"Hi, who is this?" Nick asked.

"Noah Berkowitz, and who is this?"

"This is Nick Stokes, I'm from the Las Vegas Crime Lab," Nick explained. "I need to talk to you about Farah Ibrahim?"

"Farah?" Noah sounded surprise. "I can't imagine Farah to be getting into any trouble…"

"Where are you right now, sir?" Nick asked.

"I'm down at the JFP. We're having a party. Look, did something happen to Farah? She was supposed to be here hours ago and she never showed."

"I'm afraid something did happen, Mr. Berkowitz," Nick said. "She's dead."

Noah gasped and didn't speak for a moment. He seemed to regain his thoughts. All the laughter was gone from his voice and he spoke with a stutter. "Th-that's terrible. How d-did it happen?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out, sir," Nick said. "My colleague and I are going to swing by and question you and your friends, so stay where you are."

Greg nudged him. "Shouldn't we call Brass or something—"

Nick hushed him.

"Yes," Noah said, sounding stunned. "I mean, of course. Anything… Dead? Farah? Are you sure it was her? My God, she was so sweet… Oh wow…"

"Yes, it was her," Nick said. "Her husband is being informed as we speak."

"Oh, he won't like that," Noah said, sounding bitterly.

"Excuse me?" Nick inquired, his interest piqued.

"Hassan is very possessive of her. He won't let her do anything without his consent. Every time she comes here, she tells him she's visiting her sister, Amira. It's not a lie—Amira and her husband Kareem are part of the JFP too. She's here too, I… Oh God, I have to tell her… Those two are very close."

"Great," Nick said. "Keep her there too, we'll be down there in twenty minutes."

"Nick…" Greg said slowly, biting his lip. "We should wait for Brass and Sara."

Nick looked at his watch. "Brass called while I was getting coffee," he said. "I said I might need him in interviewing this Noah guy. He told us to go on ahead, he was gonna meet us there."

Shrugging, Greg followed Nick out.

* * *

By the time Sara returned to the lab, the events that would devastate dozens of families had already been set into motion. Sara headed down the hall, pulling out her cell phone to call Nick and ask if he'd interviewed Noah Berkowitz yet. She ran into Grissom in the hall and hung up suddenly. 

"Sara," Grissom said, sounding glad to see her. "Have you seen Greg? I have a new case for him."

Sara bit her lip. "Um… I think Nick told Brass that Greg was helping us with our case."

Grissom frowned and looked at the file in his hand. "Oh. Well then I guess I'll call him and tell him to come on back. 419 in an alley in Henderson. It's not going to solve itself, and I'm running out of guys."

Sara's phone rang and she looked down at the caller ID. "Hold on, Grissom, it's Nick." She answered. "Hey."

"You called?" Nick asked.

"Yeah, actually," Sara said. "I was wondering if you've talked to anyone yet. Brass is on his way to meet you."

"We just got here," Nick said. "We're on our way in. What did you find at her house?"

"A not very happy husband and an adorable family," Sara replied. "He was with the kids all night. He said his wife was out visiting his sister in law who lived downstairs, but she wasn't home."

"Yeah, she's at this party," Nick explained. "The JFP is celebrating the first day of the Muslim Eid."

"Oh shit, yeah," Sara said. "Is it the Eid already?"

"I don't know," Nick said. "But according to Noah, she was supposed to be here. Her sister is here too with her husband. Kareem and Amira Osman."

"I need to send Maha an e-mail…" Sara muttered absently. "OK, I'll check on our evidence."

Grissom waved to get Sara's attention. "Tell him to tell Greg to get back here as soon as he's done over there and tell him to call me. I have a new case for him." Sara nodded and relayed the information to Nick.

"Gotchya," Nick agreed. "Call you when we're on our way back."

"See you soon."

If Sara had known that would be the last contact she had with Nick, she might have tried to say something more worthwhile than that. But there was no way she could have known. There was no way any of them could have known.

No one, least of all Hassan Ibrahim, could prepare for the events that followed…


	2. Fireworks

_**Author's Note:**_ How Sara describes her Arabic in the last chapter is probably how I'd describe my own. Anyways, I'm glad you're enjoying this and keeping an open mind. I was worried about the politics involved in this story, but like I said I can by no means give justice to the myriad of opinions people hold on the conflict. This is only a fraction of the very complicated story of Israel and Palestine. My personal beliefs on the conflict aside, I believe in making well-educated decisions and understanding all sides of an issue above all else. This is simply a story, and leaves out a lot of facts and opinions. I do encourage you to research the conflict, and learn as much as you can. Peace begins with understanding. Political rant done, enjoy this chapter. Also, I realized I accidentally rated this story "T." It was my intention to rate it "M" due to my bad language problem and the politics involved... But no one's complained thus far. What do you guys think?

* * *

_"I would have joined a terrorist organization." _

**Ehud Barak's (Former Israeli Prime Minister) response to Gideon Levy, a columnist for the Ha'aretz newspaper, when Barak was asked what he would have done if he had been born a Palestinian. **

* * *

"It's true," Amira Osman told Greg and Nick as she sniffed and wiped her eyes. "Hassan was very protective of my sister… But it's not what you think. He was just concerned for her. He wants peace, too, but he's… afraid. When he was twelve he watched his sister raped and killed by an Israeli soldier. And his brother was killed only a few years ago trying to protect his son. You must understand that he tries, but he just cannot trust Jewish people. Even gentle ones like Noah." 

"You seem fine with trusting him," Greg noted.

"But I am not Palestinian," Amira pointed out. "My sister and I are from Kuwait. We grew up there before coming here for college. Farah was one of the people who met Hassan, as well as a few other refugees in 2000. She helped him to become a citizen. A few years later, they were married."

"And you say Noah Berkowitz has been here all night?" Nick clarified.

Amira nodded, then gestured at the man in question over by the banquet table. "He's been serving lamb with his wife Claire ever since sundown."

"Thank you," Nick said.

Amira nodded, her brown eyes magnified by her tears. "I'm just glad to help. I want to find the man who killed my sister. But I don't think Noah had anything to do with it."

"Can you think of anyone else who would want to hurt your sister?" Nick asked.

Amira shook her head and choked back a sob. "N-no. Farah was a good person. Better than I was, often. She was definitely a better Muslim. She wears the hijab, I do not. She fasts during Ramadan… I find excuses. She was always the stronger one, of the two of us. The more faithful, the more charitable, and the more forgiving. I'm going to miss her…"

Amira's husband came over and put his arm around his wife and she turned to cry into his shoulder. He looked up at Nick and Greg. "I'm sorry, my wife is upset. Do you have all you need?"

Nick sighed despondently. "We have all we can get anyway," he replied. "Thank you for your time."

As Kareem Osman led his wife away from the two CSIs, Nick and Greg looked at each other, clueless. "Now what?" Greg voiced what they were both thinking.

"We wait for Brass," Nick replied. "We just asked a few preliminary questions. We give him our notes, he follows up on Noah to try and find holes in his story."

Greg was looking over at the happy man, his hand on his wife's bulging stomach as he laughed, probably feeling the baby inside her kick. "Something tells me it's not him, Nick."

Nick followed his gaze. "So we wait for results on our evidence. We have shoe impressions, and the skin in her teeth, right? I mean, it might not be anyone she knows at all, it could have been a random hate crime."

Greg's phone began to ring and he looked down, reaching to answer it as he looked at the caller ID and smiled. "Sanders."

Before he could say any more, or even hear what Grissom wanted to tell him, there were three loud cracking sounds that tore the air apart like lightning bolts. Greg immediately looked around for the source of the noise, thinking they were corsair bangers or some other such firecracker. But Nick interrupted his search as he knocked Greg off his feet and to the ground where Greg's elbows received some serious rug burns. Another series of cracking noises split through the air and people were screaming loudly and shrilly now. Greg didn't know why he thought of fireworks. Maybe because he knew it was a Muslim celebration, and celebrations had fireworks, even if he didn't know much more about it than that.

"_No one leaves_!" someone shouted. "_Everybody down_!"

Greg was in a daze, his world spinning. His phone was still clutched in his hand, his arms flattened on the floor palms down as he rested on his stomach. He looked over at Nick beside him, his eyes awash with confusion. But Nick was looking up towards the door, slightly more raised off the ground than Greg. The utter terror that was etched in his eyes was enough to jar Greg out of his stupor. He suddenly remembered the phone in his hand and brought it to his ear.

Grissom was babbling. "… the hell happened? Greg, are you still there? _Greg_!"

"I'm here…" Greg panted, the stunned shock sill blurring his mind somewhat. "Grissom… guns. Someone… shot at… at _everyone_!"

A cold steel circle stabbed itself into the back of his neck and his stomach lurched with fear as the breath hitched in his throat.

"Those were gunshots? Well, are you and Nick OK? Are you hurt?" Grissom was saying. Greg, too petrified to answer, simply froze. "Greg _answer me_!"

He felt the moist breath against his ear and smelled the stench of cigarettes and body odor as he felt someone's presence looming over him. "Hang up the phone," the man hissed authoritatively into Greg's ear.

Trembling, Greg swallowed and slowly cooperated, snapping the phone shut and putting his hand palm down on the ground again. The man snatched the phone from Greg's hand. He also saw the gun in Greg's holster and ripped it away from Greg. As he moved away, he stepped on his fingers, making Greg wince as he heard a cracking crunch. He screwed up his face as his fingers throbbed, but he saw the man's boots as he walked away.

He jumped at a hand on his shoulder, but looked over to see Nick looking at him with dark eyes. "You OK?" he whispered.

Eyes wide, Greg nodded, not trusting his voice to answer. He swallowed a few times and licked his lips before finally attempting speech again. "W-what's going on?"

Nick's mouth was open as he shook his head in bafflement.

But Greg's question was answered as there was the shrill sound of feedback from a microphone, and then a tapping sound that rang through the speakers. But the language that filtered through the room wasn't English. It sounded like Arabic.

A few people reacted to the words. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Amira jump to her feet. Where she had been crying before, her face was livid as she yelled back at the man on the stage in Arabic. She took off her shoe and waved it at him, approaching the stage. The gunshot nearly blew out Greg's eardrum and he watched the shoe shot from Amira's threatening hand. She looked in horror at the hand that had previously held the shoe as her knees suddenly buckled and she fainted to the ground.

It was Kareem's turn now as he jumped to his feet, but he spoke in English. "You can't possibly segregate us based on _that_!" he hissed. "That kind of intolerance is exactly what we're fighting against. My wife and I refuse to leave."

All around them, other Muslims seemed to be rising to their feet. "Me too," one man said, followed by another who agreed with him, and then a woman who called out to the man on stage, "These are my friends. I will not leave them."

From the bits of English, Greg gathered that their captors had told all the Arabs and Muslims to leave. He and Nick exchanged looks, both wondering what their agenda was, both fearing the worst. Were these terrorists intent on foiling any attempts of peace?

The man spoke into the microphone again, this time in English. Greg and Nick were facing away from the stage so they couldn't see him, but they didn't need to as listening was all he required of them.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" the man called out to them. "I tried to spare my brethren but they seem to have been corrupted by your lies and empty promises. Just as well they die with the rest of you infidels. They have turned their back on their heritage and their faith and so I have no qualms in sacrificing their lives."

The speech so far seemed to confirm Nick and Greg's fears. But then he continued, and the two CSIs were curious at his next words.

"I will kill you without a second thought. So no heroics. Because your lives mean nothing to me. I made a promise to do what was necessary in order to get what we need. Each and every one of your lives is in my hands and if you cause trouble, you will die. There are no second chances for anyone, not even my so-called kinsmen. Nevertheless, I am not an unreasonable man. If everything goes smoothly, it is possible that no one undeserving needs to die tonight. So I suggest that you cooperate with me, and maybe we can all survive tonight, eh?"

_So what do they want?_ Greg thought to himself. But soon, his question would be answered. He heard the man jump off the stage and his footsteps echoed in the room as he wove in between the bodies on the floor. He still talked into the mic, which Greg assumed was wireless.

"Tonight, a sister of Allah, a true follower and a good woman, was slaughtered by someone in this room," the man was saying. "Now my request is very simple. No one leaves until this person confesses. And I will shoot one of you every hour he stays silent. Are we clear?" There was no response. The man roared into the mic and his voice boomed inside Greg's head so loudly, he felt his brain vibrate from the sound waves. "I said, _Are we fucking clear_?!"

There was a low muttering of yeses and murmurings of understanding. The man came to a stop right next to Greg's torso and the young CSI held his breath. Suddenly, he felt the man pulling at the collar of his vest, hoisting him to his feet. Greg found himself face to face with the barrel of a very dark gun. His breathing quickened as he tried to quell the panic rising up in his chest.

"What is this?" the man spat, and for the first time Greg looked past the gun to see there was a person holding it. He was Arab, and he was _huge_, with heavy set eyebrows and a large nose. His long black hair was scraggly and the rugged stubble on his chin only made him seem wilder. "I _asked_ you a _question_!"

Somehow, he felt like the words had come out of the barrel of the gun rather than the man holding it. Greg's mind was reeling as it searched the corners of his thoughts for the answer to the gunman's question. But he didn't understand the question. "What d-do you mean?" Greg asked.

The man shook his vest. "This, _this_!" he snarled. "Is this a bullet proof vest? Who are you, a soldier? A member of the S.W.A.T. team?"

"I'm a-a-a CSI," Greg answered quickly. "It, uh, it says it on the vest."

The steel of the gun barrel slaughtered his cheek and Greg's head snapped to the right, pulling a muscle in his neck as the left side of his face sent out waves of stinging pain. He was sure the barrel of the gun had hit him so hard it had torn clear through his cheek because he could taste the metal of it in his mouth. He licked his lips and realized it wasn't the gun he tasted, but his own blood. What had he done wrong?

"Are you implying that I can't _read_, you little rat?" the gunman growled at him.

Greg shook his head quickly. "N-no, I just meant—"

The gunman tore the vest off of Greg and pushed him to the floor where he fell backwards over Nick. "You," he said, gesturing at Nick with his gun now. "You're wearing the same thing. You are a CSI too?"

The way he said the letters made Nick wonder if he knew what they stood for. Slowly, and with a worried glance at Greg, Nick rose to his feet with his hands raised, hoping the man didn't see the gun in Nick's holster. No such luck. It was the first thing he went for as he took the gun away from Nick and tossed it to one of his men nearby.

"Give me the vest," he ordered, and Nick obliged, pulling his vest off and handing it to the man. He took it and looked at the back of it, scoffing. "LVPD Crime Scene Investigation, huh?" He looked over at Nick. "Do you enjoy your job Mr.… uh…" He flipped the vest over and grinned. "Stokes?"

Nick tried to remain stoic, but he could feel himself shaking as he clenched his teeth, his whole body tense. He didn't reply, though he knew he would pay for it. The gunman shook his head and sighed, laughing lightly.

"Didn't you learn your lesson from your friend? When I ask you a question…" He cocked the gun. "You better damn well answer it."

Nick sniffed, unable to take his eyes away from the gun. "Sure," he replied, his voice cracking. He coughed. "I, uh… I do a lot of good with my job. I can… I can help you. We can talk about this—"

"_No_!" the gunman interrupted. "Where I am from people are murdered _every day_. And who do you think looks into _their_ deaths, Mr. Stokes? The _Israeli_ Crime Lab? You're more likely to see a unicorn than something like _that_. Here in America, a filthy philandering drug lord dies in the gutter, and you police go in and have to find out how he died, why he died, and which of his parasitic cliental finally did God's work and cleaned his soiled soul from this world. But what is done when a Palestinian woman, who is trying to save her grandmother's house from being _demolished_, is _crushed_ by a bulldozer when the man could _clearly_ see her? Is that man punished? No. He gets a _raise_."

"Listen…" Nick began, trying desperately to reason with the man. "I'm not… Not a cop, OK? So why don't you just let the women and children go, just let them walk out of here, keep a few choice hostages and just… Just let them go. They never hurt anyone. Please."

The man looked at him with a piercing gaze for a long time. Suddenly, he turned away from Nick and kicked a woman nearby. "You!" he said. "Get to your feet." Slowly and trembling, she did. She was pale with freckles and frizzy brown hair tied back in a ponytail. "What is your name?" he asked her.

"Jessica…" she said, her voice trembling.

The man smiled kindly at the woman as he nodded at her in what seemed to be a friendly gesture. For one brief, hopeful moment, Nick thought that maybe he had gotten through to the man, maybe he had appealed to his better nature. Maybe he would let the women go, and have them take the kids with them. He wasn't a fundamentalist, he just wanted revenge. He would be reasonable, which meant that maybe they could eventually come to some sort of understanding.

This sense of hope was short-lived as with another deafening crack, a stunned Nick found himself tasting Jessica's blood in his mouth as his jaw remained partially open. Her lifeless corpse fell instantly to the floor, her brain spilling out of her head and collecting in a pool which sank into the carpet.

Nick took long, deep breaths, trying to calm down, the image of the woman's face being shattered plastered against his eyelids. Slowly and absently, Nick raised his hand to his face and wiped her blood away from his lips, spitting to get the taste out. The man had turned to him again, clearly unfazed by the horrific death he had just caused.

"You were saying?" he inquired simply.

No one had screamed; they were all too scared. Nick's stomach churned and he felt the bile rising in the back of his throat. He swallowed and coughed, his breaths shuddering now. He tried to control himself and speak, but his mouth couldn't form the words. He faced corpses every day, but it was mostly after the fact. Never before had Nick seen another living, breathing person slaughtered so needlessly before his eyes. He gripped his stomach and looked away from the monster that stood before him.

"Why did you do that?" It was Noah Berkowitz who had spoken. He was sitting up by the buffet table, his wife laying behind him, almost under the table.

He drew the man's attention who glared at him. "I promised to kill someone every hour Farah Ibrahim's murderer remains silent. She was the first." He turned to the rest of the crowd. "As for the rest of you. You have exactly one hour until one of you is next. If I were you, and I knew the killer, I would urge him to speak up, for all of your sakes. Do we have an understanding?"

"And what if the man who killed Farah Ibrahim isn't in this room?" Greg asked, drawing their captor's gaze back to him and Nick.

The man's eyes narrowed at him. "He is here," he whispered coolly. "I know that he is here."

Slowly, Greg rose to his feet, holding his hands up to show that he wasn't trying to pose any threat. He joined Nick and stood by his side. Nick really wished he had stayed on the floor. He didn't like the idea of Greg standing in a room full of people who were on the ground, surrounded by what looked like a dozen men with guns. The last person Nick had seen standing was now nothing but a dead body whose brains were spilling out of her exploded skull. Nick didn't want to watch his friend die. He didn't want his clothes and face to be painted with Greg's insides. The very thought chilled him and he closed his eyes to hold back tears.

"Greg," he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. "Sit down."

Greg ignored him and addressed the man who seemed to be the ringleader of this whole operation. "Listen," he said slowly. "As you know, my colleague and I are CSIs. We are here because we are investigating Farah's murder, OK? So if you just let us get in touch with our lab, I can assure you we can find her killer and—"

"Do you think I am stupid?" the man interrupted. "Your laws and procedures mean _nothing_ to me. I grew up in a land where justice came in the form of crushing houses of innocent families and pushing people from their homes. This is the only way we can find peace. The man who killed Farah is in this room and I will find him. I don't care who you are. You will stay in here with everyone else, you will not get to call anyone, and you are just as likely to be chosen to be the next person shot an hour from now as anyone else. The fact that you are a CSI is irrelevant to everything. You are not more special than anyone else in here. You have no meaning to me."

Greg was obviously intimidated, regardless of how he tried to mask it. "O-OK. I can accept that… So… w-what do we call you? I mean, if we're going to be here with you guys for a while, we'll need something to—"

"Ali," the man replied simply. "You will address me as simply as that."

A cold surge of fear washed over Nick as the meaning of the man's lack of discretion hit him full force. To stable himself, he dug his nails into Greg's forearm as he wavered on the spot. His friend instantly noticed his dilemma and tried his best to support Nick.

"What's wrong?" Greg whispered.

"Sit down now," Ali ordered, obviously tired of speaking to both of them.

He hadn't needed to say it, however, as Greg was slowly helping his friend to the floor. Nick was staring ahead of him in a horrified daze.

"No masks…" Nick whispered. "None of them have masks. He told us his name, I'll bet it's his real name. He shot a woman for _nothing_. Greg… They're going to kill us all."

All the blood drained from Greg's face but he didn't let go of Nick's arm. "No…" he said, denial striking him hard in the face. "No, see, they said they'd let us go, Nick, they just want to find out who killed Farah Ibrahim and then they'll let us go. Remember? He said he wouldn't hurt anyone he didn't need to. Everything will be OK, Nick, it'll all be OK."

"No, it won't…" Nick said, the truth sinking in. "Don't you get it? It may be about finding Farah's killer, but what do you think they're going to do after that? You think they're going to say, 'Oh, OK,' and turn the guy over to the cops? They're gonna kill him, Greg. And then they're going to kill the rest of us."

Greg stared at Nick incredulously, refusing to believe his logic. He heard sirens in the distance and looked up, his eyes darting to the men surrounding the room. Some of them reacted to the noise, looking around and out the windows. One man shouted out in Arabic, making Ali look up. Ali walked over to the window and looked outside. Greg saw a smile curve at his lips.

One man, on the far side of the room by the stage, walked over towards Ali, but didn't speak. Greg noticed he stood out, being the only one who wore a ski mask to hide his face. This reassured him slightly, and he pointed it out to Nick.

"What do you make of that?" he whispered.

Nick shrugged nonchalantly. "Who knows anymore, Greg," he muttered flatly.

Greg didn't like his tone. It hadn't even been an hour and it sounded like Nick had already given up. "Nick," he said sharply. "Nick, we just have to keep holding on, OK? Don't quit on me yet."

Nick looked up at Greg and smiled. "You're right," he said. "Let's just take things as they come."

There was a high pitched whine before they heard a familiar voice booming through a loudspeaker. "_This is the _ _Las Vegas__ Police. You have our attention. We're ready to talk when you are_."

"Oh God…" Greg breathed, looking over at Ali at the window. "So I guess Brass finally showed up."

* * *

From the second Jim Brass had pulled up to the community center, he could already sense something was wrong. Nonetheless, he had shaken it off and approached the door, which he had found was locked. He had been just about to knock when he'd heard the gunshot loud and clear and jumped away from the door. He had looked around anxiously, but he had come alone. He couldn't bust into a building with an armed aggressor by himself. So he had returned to his car and immediately called for back up. He had been restless in waiting, not liking the feeling of helplessness that had encompassed him. 

Now, he stood outside the building, surrounded by squad cars, with a loudspeaker in his hand, and he still felt absolutely useless. As of yet, no one had responded to his invitation to talk. He had called Grissom to tell him what was going on only to find out that Grissom had already known. He had been on the phone with Greg when the first gun shots had rang out. He hoped that this was a hostage situation that could be negotiated and not a blind terrorist strike. Worst case scenario, the whole building would explode, killing everyone instantly. That was the last thing he wanted.

He felt his phone vibrate and reached to answer it, his eyes on the door. "Brass."

"What's going on?" Grissom's voice was stern on the other end. Brass's heart sank. He felt partially responsible for the situation he had put the two CSIs in. He had told Nick to go on ahead when he instead should have told him to wait.

"It doesn't look good, Gil," Brass said honestly. "We have no idea what's going on in there. No one's talking to us. All we know are there are multiple gunshots and hostages. We don't even know how many. It was an open house— people have been moving in and out all night, not to mention the invitation was an open one, allowing anyone to participate. We don't want to move in, we don't want to wait. We have negotiators calling the landline phone to see if anyone answers. We'll see what we do from there."

"Jim… Greg didn't sound good when I called. How many shots have gone off already?"

"Well, you heard three," Brass said. "And there have been two since I got here. One when I approached the door, and another right before the cavalry showed. Do the others know?"

Grissom sighed on the other end of the line. "Warrick and Catherine are still in the field with Sofia. I just called them and told them to meet me at the JFP headquarters. Sara's working through her evidence. I paged her, she's going to come down with me."

"You're going to come down here." Brass noted flatly. He didn't want Grissom to come, but knew there was nothing he could have done to deter him.

"Of course I am, Jim," Grissom said simply. "Those are my guys in there."

"Gil—" Brass began, not knowing what to say. "I'm… sorry."

"It's not your fault, Jim," Grissom said calmly. "Now I have to go. Sara's here." And he hung up.


	3. Segregation

_**Author's Note:**_ I'm glad to see this has stirred some interest int he politics behind this story. Thanks for reading. This chapter is... eh... It introduces folk who will be important later on. Just tread through it, following chapters are more interesting, I promise.

* * *

_"Today, as I walked on top of the rubble, Egyptian soldiers called to me from the other side of the border: 'Go! Go!' because a tank was coming. And then waving and __'What's your name?'__ Something disturbing about this friendly curiosity. To some degree, we are all kids curious about other kids. Egyptian kids shouting at strange women wandering into the path of tanks. Palestinian kids shot from the tanks when they peek out from behind walls to see what's going on. International kids standing in front of tanks with banners. Israeli kids in the tanks-- occasionally shouting, occasionally waving-- many forced to be here, many just aggressive, anonymously shooting into the houses as we wander away."_

**Rachel Corrie, American Human Rights Activist, writer, and free-spirit. Killed by an American-made Israeli bulldozer trying to save a Palestinian house.  
**

* * *

"Grissom?" Sara said at the door, looking confused. "Your page said 911. What's the emergency?" 

He turned to her with the world's perfect poker face. She had known him long enough that she saw the vacant expression he gave her was actually filled with the clatter of white noise, thoughts and emotions warring with each other on the extensive arctic battlefield that was his ice blue eyes.

His inscrutability frightened her worse than any expression of passionate emotion ever could. It meant he was hiding something fierce and frightening. It meant that he was trying to be solid and stoic, in case she couldn't be. "Grissom…?" she said slowly. "Grissom, what's going on? What's happened?"

Grissom's eyes closed, and it was as though he had drawn the curtains and locked himself inside his own head, shutting off Sara's windows into his chaotic frame of mind. He took a deep breath. He spoke evenly, as though he was talking about a case. "You know that Nick and Greg were on their way to the JFP headquarters to interview Noah Berkowitz and others who may have known Farah Ibrahim. Well when I called Greg to brief him on his new assignment, I heard gunshots."

He opened his eyes again to try and gauge her reaction. She was staring at him with stony brown eyes, but her posture was stiff as she gripped the door frame with ferocious intensity, as though if she let it go she would collapse in a heap on the floor. He continued, looking her directly in the eyes. "I tried to call again, but I couldn't get through. I called Nick. He's not answering either. About fifteen minutes later, Brass called and told me there's a hostage situation and that he was afraid Nick and Greg were inside. I confirmed that they were, and told him what I'd been able to hear over the phone. He's down there now, along with negotiators and half the force trying to get them and everyone else out alive."

The breath caught in Sara's throat, which all of a sudden felt painfully dry. She knew it was an organization lobbying for political change, which meant it made the perfect target for extremists against what they were working towards. "Um… Is it a terrorist attack?"

Grissom bit his lip, casting his eyes downward in thought. "They don't want to call it that yet. As of now, it's a class one hostage situation. Until they figure out what they want, they can't technically call it terrorism."

Sara swallowed and nodded, pursing her lips. She let go of the door frame only to fold her arms tightly around herself. "Are they OK? Greg and Nick?

Grissom sighed. "I can't be sure…" he said. "Last I talked to Greg, he was out of breath, but he was alive. That was over half an hour ago though."

"So what are we waiting for?" Sara asked. "We need to get down there."

Grissom nodded. There was work to be done, but corpses would remain dead. He wasn't so sure if Nick and Greg would remain alive. "We're meeting Sofia, Warrick and Catherine down there as soon as possible."

Sara nodded her understanding. "Good," she said, her voice sounding much more solid. "Because I don't think I can keep working knowing that they're…" She didn't finish her sentence, but simply nodded faster, her resolve to not even contemplate the possibilities vividly obvious in her angry eyes. "Just good."

Grissom knew that although the words came from her mouth as a mantra of denial, Sara knew that nothing was good at all anymore.

* * *

When Catherine pulled up to the headquarters of the JFP, the police, reporters and crime scene tape made her think that Grissom was trying to reassign them. She hit the wheel in annoyance and bit her lip. 

"What, has Grissom run out of CSIs?" she said.

"Calm down…" Warrick said slowly, getting out of the car. "This looks important."

"There's Brass," Sofia said, frowning. "I don't know why you need me here…"

The captain was holding a loudspeaker as he spoke to a man in a suit. Slowly, the three approached him, using their badges to slip under the yellow tape. He saw them over the shoulder of his conversation partner and his gaze betrayed nothing.

"Is Grissom here yet?" he asked them.

Catherine frowned in confusion. "What's going on?"

The suit turned around to look at her with green eyes and Catherine's frowned deepened to see the FBI badge that hung around his neck. "We don't need CSI here," he said. He turned back to Brass. "Get them out of here."

Sofia pushed forward, annoyed at his rudeness. She hated the FBI. "I'm Detective Curtis, would you mind telling me what's going on here, sir?" She spoke as politely as possible, but was still irked at him for the way he had so blandly brushed Catherine and Warrick off.

The fed opened his mouth to reply but it was Brass who beat him to it. "Agent Ripley, this is Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown, they work under Gil Grissom who I told you about earlier. He asked them to meet him here so we could brief them on the situation, considering it concerns two of their colleagues."

"The two CSIs you told me about," Agent Ripley said, nodding in understanding. "Until we make contact with the terrorists, this case is on a need-to-know basis. I'll talk to Dr. Grissom as he's their supervisor, but the presence of CSI is completely unnecessary. If they're concerned for their colleagues, they can wait behind the tape along with friends and family of the other hostages."

Catherine did a quick count off in her head. Grissom, Warrick, and herself were accounted for, which only left Sara, Greg and Nick. Whatever two CSIs they were talking about, the thought of any of them in trouble with terrorists chilled Catherine to the bone.

"Brass, who's in there?" she asked. "Who's in that community center? Where's Nick? Sara? Greg?"

"Sara's with Grissom, she's fine," Brass tried to reassure her and calm her down.

It seemed to have the adverse effect on Catherine. "Jim, do you mean to tell me that Greg and Nicky are—"

But she was interrupted when she saw a man in a black t-shirt jump out of a nearby van and run up to them. He wore a headset. Agent Ripley looked at him expectantly, but he simply shook his head.

"We try cell phones then," Ripley replied. "As far as we know, that building is still filled with live hostages, so they have to want something."

But the man put a hand to his ear; someone was speaking into his headset. He looked at Riley with wide eyes. "We've made contact," he said, before jumping back into the van. Ripley followed swiftly, as did Brass, but when Warrick, Catherine and Sofia made to do the same, Ripley stopped them.

"Hold on…" he said as he watched his negotiator sit down and take the phone. He put on a headset and handed one to Brass who listened intently. Catherine and Warrick exchanged looks while Sofia just spun around and stalked off. Unable to hear both sides of the conversation, Catherine and Warrick just watched the negotiator speak into the microphone.

* * *

"Our terms are simple," Ali was saying into the phone. "We want you to leave." 

Nick and Greg looked at each other nervously as something was said on the other end of the phone that they couldn't hear.

"No," Ali said suddenly. "No, I don't want to talk to negotiators I don't _want_ anything from _any_ of you, I just want you to _leave_, do you understand? Leave, or you'll be responsible for the deaths of the fifty some odd people in here." There was another period of silence before another outburst from Ali. "No, you're not _listening_ to me, you _never do_, I don't care about money, I just want a murderer to be brought to justice. You are making me impatient. And when I am impatient I shoot people. Just go away." And with that he hung up. He spun around.

"You all listen to me," he said, addressing the crowd. "My colleague here is going to go around and separate you into two groups. Just do what he says and everything will be fine." He turned to the only masked man and pushed him, speaking quickly in Arabic. The man argued with him for a moment before begrudgingly obliging.

As he walked around, he would point to someone and tell them to go either to the wall at the left side of the room or the one on the right. A child's eyes were watering. He kneeled down and spoke softly to her. She didn't seem appeased. So he addressed the mother who was holding her.

"Shut her up." The mother nodded and swallowed. "Go to the left."

Ali yelled at him from his position on the stage. The masked man looked at him in confusion. "Ana?" he said.

"La!" Kareem screamed. "No, that's not _fair_!"

"Sit _down_!" Ali shouted at Kareem, cocking his gun.

Kareem, intimidated by this, nodded slowly and sat down. The masked man hesitantly reached for the little girl in the mother's arms and lifted her up in his own.

"What are you doing with my baby?" the mother asked, her eyes wide with fear.

"Sh…" the man hushed soothingly. "I will protect her, I promise." Greg heard a note of sympathy in his voice and wondered vaguely if the man was a father himself. "Now. Go to the right. Your baby will go to the left." The woman's eyes watered but the masked man seemed compelled to comfort her. "Don't worry, your daughter will be safe."

She swallowed, not quite believing him, but the masked man held a gun and was pointing it at her, and if he promised he would protect her child, who was she to argue with an armed man? So she tearfully made her way to the right corner of the room.

The masked man reached Noah Berkowitz, who was standing protectively in front of his pregnant wife. He was looking up at the masked man with strong eyes as he rose to his feet.

"The right," the man said, his voice all of a sudden losing any drop of sympathy it previously held. He looked at Noah's wife, a blonde who looked terrified as she instinctively hugged her stomach to protect her unborn child. The kind note in his voice returned at this sight. "The left," he said to her.

"You can't take my wife away from me," Noah said daringly. "She was good friends with Farah— we both were. We're grieving her death too you can't—"

_Bang!_

Noah let out a loud, curt cry as the bullet grazed his arm. His fingers flew to the wound, putting pressure on it to stop the bleeding. He looked up at the masked man, terrified.

"Next time I won't miss," the man said mercilessly. "You go to the right, your wife goes to the left."

He kept moving, telling most people to go to the left, while he told only a select few to go to the right. Soon, he came to a slightly overweight, balding man with glasses and scrutinized him for a long time.

"What are you lookin' at?" the man snapped, folding his arms.

"Right," he said, and kicked the man to make him get to his feet.

The man grunted and looked at him with disdain before moving aside. He moved to a significantly older man, who was staring resolutely ahead of him. He didn't look at the masked man, even after he kicked him.

"You, to the right," he said sternly.

The man didn't move.

The masked men looked over his shoulder and called to Ali in Arabic. Ali looked annoyed and yelled back at him. The masked man shrugged and kicked him again. "I would tell you left. But he wants you right. So get up and move."

Slowly, the old man's head turned and he looked up at him with tiny brown eyes. "What are you going to do with the people on the right?" he asked.

The masked man didn't answer, he simply kneeled down and yanked the old man to his feet. The old man cried out as he staggered up, but he glared at the masked man. As the masked man pushed him to the side, the old man leaned in close and spoke in what he probably thought was a whisper, but was actually fairly loud.

"I'm not afraid of you," he said. There was an accent in his voice that sounded European, but was difficult to place.

The masked man was unimpressed as he simply pushed the old man to the right, and he leaned against the wall. The old man watched the masked man as he continued to designate who would be left and who would be right.

He came to another woman, a Latina who was dressed in a business suit. Her arms were folded and she didn't look happy. She looked up at the masked man with raised eyebrows. "So which is it, left or right?"

He looked at her a moment, then over his shoulder at Ali, who nodded. "Right," he said. She scoffed as she got to her feet and walked over to the wall. She would be obedient, but she would complain about it too.

He walked around some more until he came to two angry looking young men. One was blonde and looked to be in his mid-twenties. The other was a redhead, and looked much younger and wirier, maybe around sixteen or so. Both of them looked like rebellious kids, waiting for their chance to rise up against authority and save the world. The masked man told them go to the right.

He wove through the remaining bodies on the floor before he pointed at a blonde girl who also looked to be in her mid to late teens. She was in a gaggle of other kids who looked to be her age, too, all of varying ethnicities.

The masked man came to Kareem and Amira, who was now awake. He seemed to hesitate and Ali noticed. He called over to him in Arabic. The masked man stiffened, and nodded.

Kareem whispered something to him in Arabic. His words seemed almost familiar, like he was talking to an old friend instead of a man with a gun. The masked man looked away.

Greg found himself fascinated watching this guy, figuring out his weaknesses. He certainly didn't hesitate to use his gun, but he was sympathetic to children and women. It was easier than studying Ali, who seemed to have no weaknesses in Greg's eyes. Ali was driven, and he was willing to kill anyone, even a defenseless woman for no reason. But this masked man had something to lose. He wasn't so willing to give up his identity as Ali was. He wanted to make it out alive, while Ali seemed willing to sacrifice himself for the cause. Ali was a terrorist. The masked man was not. And it was important, at least to Greg, to make the difference clear in his head.

The masked man, whom Greg had unimaginatively dubbed Mask for lack of a real name, finally seemed to decide on which sides of the room Amira and Kareem Osman would go. Both were told to go right.

Finally, after going through fifty people, Mask finally approached Nick and Greg. He looked at them both, then looked at the right wall and counted. He then looked back at Greg and Nick, who were watching him closely. He called over to Ali, who replied and gestured at Greg. Greg felt like he was a gladiator in Ancient Rome who had his opponent's foot on his neck, only he didn't know if Emperor Ali was giving him the thumbs up or the thumbs down. He looked at Nick fearfully before Mask grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet.

"Go to the right," he ordered, then looked at Nick. "You go to the left."

Nick jumped to his feet and dug his fingers into Greg's forearm. "Are you going to let us go?" he asked Mask.

Greg thought this was a dangerous question, but Mask didn't respond. He simply pulled Greg out of Nick's grasp and threw him to the right side of the room.

Nick asked again. "There are forty-four people on the left including me, and eleven on the right including Greg. You're letting the forty people go and keeping the rest, aren't you? How can you know the killer is one of the eleven people you chose? How can you know for a fact that he's even among the forty that you _didn't_ choose?"

Mask cocked his gun and aimed it straight at Nick's head. "I would stop talking if I were you."

Nick held his breath a moment before daring to speak again. This time, it was slower, and with less insolence. "OK… Listen. You're looking for a killer and so are we."

"Nick!" Greg hissed through gritted teeth.

Nick glanced at Greg momentarily, before his gaze shifted back to Mask. "No, wait, Greg, I think we can negotiate here, we're all civilized people here. Just talk to the cops out there, I have evidence from the scene that will _prove_ who killed Farah Ibrahim, OK? My colleague, she can get it, she can process it, she can _tell_ you who it was beyond the shadow of a doubt. And if it's someone in here, well then you can have him for all I care. Shoot him dead, torture him, make sure he gets what he deserves, because what happened to that woman was heinous and hideous and whoever did it to her deserves everything you want to give him, but please, _please_, just let everyone in here go, OK? Let these good people go. They didn't kill Farah Ibrahim. They just want peace, OK?"

Greg thought for sure that he was about to watch Nick's brains go splat on the wall behind them, but to his great surprise, the hand that held Mask's gun was trembling. Something Nick had said had affected him. Nick glanced at Greg, asking the silent question to which Greg simply shrugged in answer. Neither of them knew what it was that had made him hesitate. What they could see of his brown eyes looked torn. Was he considering what Nick had said? Would he talk to the police?

Another gunshot ripped through the air and for one terrifying moment, Greg thought it had ripped through Nick's skull as well. It took a minute or two staring at Nick's still-standing form until he realized the shot hadn't come from Mask's gun, but from Ali's, who had his gun pointed in the air. He was shouting at Mask in Arabic and ordering a few of the men on the perimeter to go in and pull Nick and Greg apart from each other.

"No!" Greg screamed. This wasn't good. Mask was his only hope. All the others wore no masks, and were probably just as willing to die as Ali was. Mask seemed to be the only person who could talk to Ali directly. He was second in command. And he was sympathetic. Greg could appeal to that, Greg could _use_ that, but not if Ali didn't let them talk.

"Greg!" Nick shouted, as one of the men threw him against the wall with the other hostages. Greg was being pulled towards the right, with the specially selected hostages.

On the stage, Ali gestured for the eleven on the right, which now included Greg, to come up and join him. They all followed, each showing varying degrees of fear. Greg's eyes kept darting to Mask frantically. The mother kept looking at her child and trying to reassure her from afar, as though saying '_Mama's gonna be OK_.' The bitter balding man was grumbling, but fear was obvious in his posture. The old European stood tall and proud, betraying no emotion. The two boys kept looking at each other, both visibly nervous and not sure what was going on anymore. The teenage girl kept looking at her friends, asking with her eyes what she should do. Kareem and Amira kept their eyes trained on Ali, and were clutching each other's hands. Noah Berkowitz glanced at the business woman in front of him, and then longingly at his wife on the left wall. The business woman was looking horrified as she bit her manicured nails and her eyes kept darting to the gun in Ali's hand.

Ali told all eleven of them to line up in a row, which they did. Nick was both proud and annoyed at Greg at the same time, who pushed his way to the front of the line closest to Ali. _Don't be a hero, Greg_, he thought, although he knew he would have done the same thing.

Ali picked up the phone. Everyone could hear what he said. "Hello, police? Yes, I just wanted you to know that it has been an hour since I came in here and I still haven't gotten what I wanted from these people."

Greg felt someone pressing up against his shoulder and looked down to see the redheaded teenage boy who was trying to hide behind him. Greg gave him a reassuring smile and tried to give the kid a little courage, although courage was scarce to be found in any of them, including Greg.

"It'll be OK." He repeated the very same words he had whispered to Nick an hour earlier, and though there was no way he could know if things would be OK or not, the redhead seemed to smile up at him, encouraged by these simple, empty words. Greg saw the freckles standing out on his pale cheeks and felt a strange affection for the kid. He ruffled his hair. He had always wanted to be a big brother to someone. At the lab, everyone treated him like the youngest in a big family. It felt nice being depended on. Looked up to. Even by a stranger.

Ali continued. "No, for the last time, I told you there is nothing you can do except go _away_. In seven seconds, it will be exactly an hour since I last shot someone. Three… Two… One."

Greg's hope was shattered with that single sound. It didn't sound like a gunshot to him, or even a firework this time. It sounded like a pop, as if from a toy gun or someone popping open a champagne bottle. He had forgotten completely about the one hour rule. He knew he shouldn't have been a hero. He knew he shouldn't have shoved himself to the front of the line. He knew he shouldn't have thought of himself as a big brother. Who could he ever protect, someone as powerless as him? Someone who could be destroyed with one gunshot that didn't even sound like a gunshot.

One gunshot that didn't even hit him.

He heard Nick call out his name as though it was a battle cry.

He heard Ali talking into the phone, but couldn't make out his words.

All his attention was focused on the kid that was now bleeding all over him.

He had caught the redheaded teenager as the boy's legs gave way beneath him, getting blood all over his shirt and jeans, but he didn't care. There was a cry from the blonde guy somewhere down the line. He made a move to go to the redhead but Noah held him back. He struggled, but Noah still held fast.

The boy's breathing came in short and shallow bursts, his eyes bulging. The bullet had pierced his shoulder. Ali had probably been aiming for the heart but he had missed. Greg put pressure on the wound, trying to stop the bleeding with his hands but it would do no good. Frantic, he looked around for a cloth or something to put over the wound, but found nothing. He then decided to use his own shirt and began to pull it off his head when the boy's quiet whisper stopped him.

"Don't."

Greg blinked down at him, this brother he had just met, promised to protect and failed all in the course of fifteen seconds. "You're bleeding like crazy, I have to stop it."

He spoke in gasps with his breathing. "I'm… gonna… die. Don't… waste… your shirt… on me…"

Greg pushed the hair back from the kid's head and shook his head. "Nah, dude, you're gonna be OK. What's your name, kid?"

But he didn't hear him. His eyes were screwed tight as he began to cry. "I… don't wanna… die…" he sobbed.

"His name is Neil," said the blonde man, who had suddenly arrived at Greg's side. He kneeled down next to the kid.

"Jared?" Neil panted, his eyes snapping open as he stared up at the ceiling unseeing. "Jared, I… can't… see…"

"It's OK, man, I'm here," Jared said, his blue eyes wide.

"Tell… Mom… I got a… D in calculus…" Neil said.

Jared smiled as the tears streaked down his cheeks. "Oh sure, let her shoot the messenger."

"Better you then… me…" Neil said. He whined and turned his head away. "I'm… scared, Jared."

Jared took his hand and squeezed it tight. "It's OK, Neil. Soon, all this will be over, and you'll be…"

Jared trailed off as Neil's body began shaking like crazy. "Guy?" Neil breathed, staring at Greg with glazed blue eyes. "Th-thanks…" he choked before his convulsing finally stopped.

Jared let out a sob as he continued to hold Neil's hand. "Oh God…" he said. "I don't know what I'm gonna tell his mom."

Greg just closed his eyes and turned his head away. He felt cold and was rubbing his arms. He couldn't see anything, he didn't _want_ to see anything. Not the carnage of the slain Neil or the look that was on Nick's face, or the guns, or the men, or the Mask… So he listened. He listened intently. To Jared's weeping. To footsteps scuffling. To Ali, who was still talking on the phone.

It was then and only then that he realized Ali was in deep conversation with the person on the other line. And they were discussing him. 


	4. Negotiations

_**Author's Note:**_ I apologize for the utter lack of Nick and Greg in this chapter, but I assure you that the next chapter revolves around them. For those of you worried there wasn't enough Nick angst, well... I wouldn't worry if I were you. I'd say the balance between Nick and Greg angst is pretty good in this story. Also, while you may not see it in early chapters, there's also going to be some Warrick angst, and of course Catherine, Grissom and Sara don't get off so easy either. There's a reason I left this pairing free, and said it was TEAM friendship. It focusses on everyone (although I haven't used Sofia much, I feel kind of bad about that.)

_**A note on posting and length:** _For those of you who know my writing, you know I tend to write _very_ far ahead of myself to give me the flexibility to go back and make changes if I come up with a killer idea. Good news for me, as I can plant little clues in early chapters as to what will happen later, but also good news for you guys, because it means that the delay in posting is minimal, usually one to two days. Warning, though, this is a long story, so be in it for the long haul. I'm talking longer than my longest story to date, "Collateral Damage," which is 62,400 words. So you have been warned.

_**Arabic Lesson of the Day:**_ The word "Habibti" is used in this chapter. It is the feminine version of a term of endearment, corresponding most closely with the English "dear." The male version (in case you're wondering) is "Habibi" (without the 't').

* * *

_"There remains one basic choice, and only Israelis can make it: Do we want permanent peace with our neighbors, or do we want to retain our settlements in the occupied territories of the Palestinians? America's worst betrayl of Israel would be to support the second choice."_

**Jimmy Carter, Former US President, Humanitarian**

* * *

Sara and Grissom had arrived after the first contact was made, but they were able to be there the second time they called. 

This time, Ripley was vehement about keeping the CSIs behind the crime scene tape, but Brass insisted on letting Grissom in, saying that he often saw things others missed. Grissom sat with a headset in the van as he listened to the call and the countdown to God knows what.

"Three… two… one…" BANG! Everyone in the van had jumped. No one knew why he had done it.

Nick's sickeningly desperate cry made Grissom shudder, hoping against hope that his assumption was wrong. "_Greg!_"

"Who did you shoot?" the negotiator asked into the microphone. "And _why_?"

"If he shot Greg…" Grissom said to himself, looking at Brass.

The negotiator heard him. "Did you shoot the CSI?"

"What?"

That hadn't been a smart move. Ripley was glaring at his negotiator, but the negotiator made a sign to show he knew what he was doing.

"The CSI Greg Sanders," the negotiator said. "Someone screamed his name just now."

"Do you know who _else_ is in here?" the terrorist breathed angrily into the phone.

"We know there are two CSIs in there," the negotiator replied calmly. "In addition to about fifty people we are still identifying."

"I shot a redheaded kid," the terrorist said nastily. "Your Greg Sanders is fine."

"What do you want out of these people?" the negotiator asked. "You said you haven't gotten what you wanted from them. Do they have information you need? Just tell us your demands of them, you'll be surprised at what we can do."

"You and your fucking CSIs!" the terrorist yelled into the phone. "Talking about negotiating, letting people _go_, well I'll tell you what. I'm going to wait an hour, and then if I don't get what I want from these people by then, I will shoot one more person before I call you guys again and see if _you_ have better luck than I do—"

Someone had interrupted the terrorist, yelling in Arabic. Ripley made a quick note of this.

"What are you doing?" Brass asked.

"Arabic," Ripley said as though it were obvious. "We have translators, we can play them the tape."

The two men seemed to argue amongst themselves. Greg's name came up once. But then Grissom heard a name somewhere in the conversation that he was utterly shocked to hear. He couldn't have heard right. He must have mistaken an Arabic word for her name. But they kept saying it.

Finally, the terrorist returned to the phone call, sounding very irritated. "Change of plans, apparently. We will talk to you now," he said. "But we will only talk to the CSI named Sidle."

No, Grissom had heard right. He and Ripley both looked at Brass, who was looking as though he was trying to fit two jigsaw pieces together.

"I know who's in there," Brass said suddenly. "Hassan Ibrahim. Sara Sidle and I were at his apartment earlier today. He took a liking to her because she knew some Arabic."

"Well is she here now?" Ripley demanded.

"You made her wait behind the crime scene tape," Grissom said, his annoyance only creeping into his voice somewhat.

"Well get her here _now_!" he demanded of Brass who, rather than jumping to action, just rolled his eyes as he left the van. He only took his time inside to show his irritation with the FBI, but once outside he broke into a small jog as he went to find Sara.

* * *

"This is bull shit!" Catherine exclaimed, pacing back and forth. 

"Stop yelling…" Sara whispered. She was leaning on the trunk of Catherine's car, her arms folded as she stared at the dirt Catherine was kicking up with her heals.

Catherine turned on her. "They aren't _doing_ anything. You didn't hear them talking. They don't _want_ anything. Whatever's going on is an internal affair. These feds are _useless_."

Sara jumped as someone honked the horn in the car. The two women craned their necks around the corner of it to see Warrick leaning back in the front seat. He hit the horn again.

Catherine scowled. "I know you're pissed, but please don't kill my car," she called over to him.

Sara felt very cold in the hot Nevada night. They had been standing outside for less than an hour, and yet it felt like days. Not knowing the fate of her friends upset her gravely, and seeing the worried families of hostages inside. Agent Ripley had come to speak with them to get an idea of who was inside. What Sara had overheard, there was an after-school group there with a similar idea of diversity and understanding. There was Noah Berkowitz and Kareem and Amira Osman, whom Sara had told Ripley about, remembering that's who Nick had been going to talk to. There was a Holocaust survivor, according to the man's son who looked like he was about to faint. There was a corporate lawyer whose firm had been sponsoring the organization. She had been there to check on their interests, according to the firm. Sara had been asked what was going on by a frantic mother, who said her son and stepson were inside. She told her the truth. She had no idea what was happening at all.

She looked up at the sky which was black. She couldn't even see the stars. Storm clouds loomed over them and she knew it would rain soon. She wondered how Nick and Greg were faring in there. She had no way of knowing if either of them were still even alive. She had horrible flashbacks to Nick's abduction. But though watching him suffer had made her stomach churn, at least then they had known that he was still alive. This was a different story altogether.

The booming gunshot made her jump out of her reverie. Catherine's car door slammed and Sara looked over her shoulder to see Warrick running at the crime scene tape.

"What was that?!" he exclaimed, looking at Catherine and Sara. "What the hell was that?"

"We don't know anymore than you do," Catherine said, also striding over to the crime scene tape.

Warrick shook his head. "Fuck this," he said, and lifted the crime scene tape.

"Whoa!" an officer said, running over. "I'm sorry, you can't cross here."

"I'm CSI," Warrick said, flashing his badge.

"I know," the officer said. "And I'm sorry, but the only CSI allowed beyond this point is Gil Grissom."

Warrick tried to remain calm. He looked at the ground, then up at the officer. "OK. Listen. You have a partner, right?" The officer hesitated before nodding. Warrick raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "You work well with your partner? You get along? You have his back, he has yours?"

"For five years," the officer said.

"Well then imagine your partner, your _best friend_, was in there with trigger-happy terrorists." The officer opened his mouth to respond. "OK, I'm glad you have that image in your head. Now imagine that it's not just your partner. He's with another one of your colleagues, one you're pretty fond of. He's the new guy, he's the youngest, and there are situations when he can be _incredibly_ stupid, to the point where it could put his life in danger. Your two colleagues, your two _friends_, people you rely on, are trapped in that building. Now tell me, officer, what would _you_ do?"

The officer would have none of it. He folded his arms and shook his head at Warrick. "I'm sorry, sir, but you're going to have to—"

"Warrick!"

Both the officer and Warrick turned at the voice and Warrick sighed with relief to see Brass marching towards them. Brass pushed the officer aside and ducked under the tape.

"You're not here to give us any bad news are you?" Warrick asked.

"It depends on how you look at it," Brass said. By now, Sara and Catherine and joined them.

"Jim…" Catherine said slowly. "That gunshot—"

"Killed someone, but it wasn't Greg or Nick." He saw Catherine and Warrick relax, but Sara remained tense. "Sara?"

She shook her head, her expression blank. "Who did it kill?" She drew Catherine and Warrick's gaze.

Brass nodded, understanding her meaning. "A kid," he said. "One with red hair."

"What was his name?" Sara asked.

"We don't know," Brass replied.

Sara nodded at a family down the way. "Do you see them? They're the Silvermans. Bonnie and David. They have three kids; two from previous marriages and the third you'll see in Bonnie's arms. Her name is Carolyn. Their other two kids, boys, are in that building. One of them is sixteen and has red hair."

"How do you know all this?" Catherine asked, putting a kind hand on Sara's shoulder.

"I talked to them," Sara replied. "She saw I was a CSI and thought I might know something. I… I told her I didn't. I told her I wasn't a cop."

"Well I didn't come here to tell you about that," Brass said, changing the subject though he eyed the Silvermans warily. "They've asked to speak with you."

Sara was taken aback. "With me?"

Catherine and Warrick were equally baffled. "Now hold on a minute, Brass," Warrick broke in. "What the hell is going on? They asked for a CSI?"

"No," Brass said, looking him firmly in the eye. "They asked for _Sara_."

Sara blinked at him. "But… They don't… I don't _know_…"

"I think you _do_ know them, or at least one of them," Brass said. "I think Hassan Ibrahim is inside."

Sara gasped. "W-what? What would he want? He has a family… He's not a terrorist."

"I don't know," Brass said honestly. "But he's only willing to talk—to negotiate—with you."

But Sara was shaking her head vehemently. "No, I don't have any negotiating skills, Brass, I'm no good with people…" She saw Catherine and latched onto the opportunity desperately. "Catherine! You should use Catherine, she deals with people better than I do."

"Sara, please," Brass said. "Now would be wonderful."

Sara bit her lip and glanced at Catherine and Warrick. Catherine gave her a reassuring smile.

"It's OK, sweetie," she said. "You have a chance to help."

"Or hurt," Sara pointed out. "I want to help, but…"

"Just go," Warrick muttered, sounding annoyed. He turned his back and shook his head, walking back towards the driver's seat of Catherine's car.

Sara watched after him dolefully before Brass tugged softly on her arm. "Sara? Please?"

She swallowed and nodded. "I'll do what I can," she resolved.

He led her under the crime scene tape with a nod at the officer who had stopped Warrick earlier and brought her over to the van where Grissom and Agent Ripley were waiting for her. Ripley started saying things, prepping her probably, telling her how to act, what to do, what to say. Nothing he said even touched her mind. It literally wove in her left ear, around her brain, and out the other. She didn't understand what he expected her to do. She sat down in one of the swivel chairs like a zombie as the negotiator next to her handed her a headset. She put it on.

"Don't you worry, princess," the negotiator said with an encouraging smile. "I'll be listening in, we all will be, so you're not in on this alone, you hear? Now if I tell you to say something, I recommend you listen to me."

"And me," Ripley added.

The negotiator looked up at Ripley, then to Sara. "Not him," he said. Sara had to smile at that.

Ripley scowled at the negotiator. "Excuse me?"

The negotiator gave in. "Alright, take into account what he says and you decide if it's relevant or not, OK?" The negotiator looked nervously at Ripley, who was still glaring at him, but seemed appeased. Ripley turned to another police officer in the van. The negotiator leaned in close to Sara and whispered to her with a smirk. "Really, though. Don't listen to him. He doesn't know anything about compromise."

Sara nodded, glad she was working with at least _one_ person who seemed to know what he was talking about. "What's your name?" she asked him.

"Steve," he replied absently as he fiddled with controls and checked something on a monitor.

"You remind me of someone, Steve," Sara said. "Our AV tech."

Steve flashed her a grin. "So I bet he knows his stuff then." He pointed at the monitor. "We're recording your call, so if you miss something or if they go off in Arabic, don't worry about translating all by your onesie, we'll review it later and sort it out. You'll see the sound waves here. Afterwards, I'm going to see if I can separate the layers of sound to see if I can—"

"I know," Sara interrupted. "I'm a CSI. Remember?"

He nodded. "Of course."

She felt a firm hand squeezing her shoulder and looked up to see Grissom looking down on her with complete composure in his eyes. She shook her head at him in awe, her own emotions in a spin she could barely control. "How you can be the perfect portrait of calm in this situation is beyond me."

"I trust you," he said simply. "And I trust Nick and Greg."

Sara heard ringing in her ears and for a moment thought she was going crazy until she remembered she was wearing the headset. She looked at Steve, who was watching her carefully, as though she might break or burst at any moment. The breath caught in her throat as someone answered the phone.

"Salam alekum?"

"Uh…" Sara began slowly. It took her a moment to start thinking again. First, she should respond, then introduce herself, then ask him to do the same. OK. Well. How did she do that again? "Salam. Uh… Ana isma Sara. Ismac eh?"

"Inta betetkalem Arabi?"

Sara didn't know this phrase. She hesitated, trying to pick out the words she recognized. 'Arabi.' That meant 'Arabic.' What was English again? She wished she knew better Arabic. She had to ask him to help her out. "Ana mish fahem. Mumken tsaa'dni?"

"I knew you were a fraud," the man scoffed.

"I just meant that I didn't understand what you said," Sara covered quickly. "Your dialect… I don't recognize it."

"I can barely decipher _yours_," the man snapped sounding irritated. "Where did you learn?"

"My friend is from Dubai," Sara replied. "And I studied in Cairo for six months."

The man scoffed again. "Amateur. I thought I was asking for an Arabic speaker, they send me one who knows _Egyptian_. Like this could be called real _Arabic_."

"Look, you asked for me, alright? So can we talk? Min fadlik?" The Arabic 'please' was added less for actual politeness and more for spiteful proof that she knew _some _things. She was getting annoyed with his arrogant tone.

"I was told by my colleague that you would understand," the man said coolly. "That you had a sympathetic ear for the Palestinian plight."

"I do," Sara said suddenly. "I'm totally pro-Palestinian rights. I think it sucks what happened to you guys. You shouldn't have to suffer for Europe's mistakes."

The negotiator shot Sara a look and Sara wondered if she had said something wrong.

"Then you understand what we must do."

Sara cursed herself. Of course, she shouldn't have shown political leanings either way. Steve was shaking his head. "It's my understanding…" Sara said slowly, "that you're dealing with an internal matter. That… this isn't a terrorist attack."

"Define 'terrorist attack' for me, Miss Sidle," the man asked, sounding amused.

"Violence and, uh… threats to coerce governments and force… uh… political change. Inspire chaos, that sort of thing," Sara replied offhandedly. She wasn't sure if it was Oxford's definition, but she felt she did well. "So far, you haven't been interested in even _dealing_ with the government at all."

"I will reason with you, Miss Sidle," said the man. "A sister of Allah was slain tonight."

"Farah Ibrahim," Sara said. "I'm working on her case."

"Yes, you and your friends in here, and the person sitting next to you and that guy by the bus stop—_Everyone _seems to be 'working on her case' but _no one_ is coming up with any _answers_, are they?"

"These investigations take time, sir," Sara said. "Just processing the evidence, depending on what it is, or how much our lab has, it can take days, sometimes weeks to—"

"I do have a demand, Miss Sidle," the man said, interrupting her. "You will process this… this _evidence_ and you will tell me the name of Farah Ibrahim's murder. As a show of good faith, I will release thirty hostages, but I will keep twenty four. Starting at the beginning of this hour, you have twenty-four hours to give me my results. And I would hurry, habibti, if I were you. Either the killer confesses, or I kill a hostage every hour on the hour until you tell me what I want to hear. Are we very clear on this?"

" Crystal," Sara said. "When are you releasing the hostages?"

The man on the phone was calling to someone else in the room. He waited a minute or so before returning back to Sara. "I have chosen my extra fourteen to add to the ten I had picked out previously. They will—_la! Hassan, la!_ Fucking… _Mr. Stokes, restrain yourself now!_"

There was shouting coming from somewhere else and a fumbling on the other end and then a gunshot before the man hung up. Sara looked up at Grissom, absolutely horrified. Had she done something wrong?


	5. Sun and Stars

_**Author's Note:**_ Ah, the first of the monologues from one of the characters... Noah's rant is (unfortunately?) not unique. There will be more. Er... Sorry. But I like them, and I'm teaching you things you may not have known. They will, however, all be different, and remember: they are OPINIONS. But I'm quite fond this chapter. Apart from the cheesy symbolism, but what's a good work of fan fiction without it, eh? Hahaha, I love speaking in obvious metaphors.

* * *

_"The world has lost one of its greatest men - a warrior for his nation's freedom, and now a martyr for his nation's peace._

_To Leah Rabin and her children, Hillary and I send our love and our prayers. To the people of Israel, I want you to know that the hearts and prayers of all Americans are with you. Just as America has stood by you in moments of crisis and triumph, so now we all stand by you in this moment of grieving and loss._

_For half a century, Yitzhak Rabin risked his life to defend his country. Today he gave his life to bring it a lasting peace. His last act, his last words, were in defense of that peace he did so much to create. Peace must be and peace will be Prime Minister Rabin's lasting legacy. Tonight the land for which he gave his life is in mourning. But I want the world to remember what Prime Minister Rabin said here at the White House barely one month ago,and I quote: 'We should not let the land flowing with milk and honey become a land flowing with blood and tears. Don't let it happen'."_

**Bill Clinton, Former US President and active participant in peace processes between Arafat and Rabin during his presidency. On the death of Yitzhak Rabin, former Israeli Prime Minister who was assassinated.**

* * *

He was struggling against Mask's grip, yelling at Ali in a pronounced southern drawl as Mask pulled the hostages who had been sent to the left towards the door, Nick included. Ali was yelling back at him in Arabic. He shot in the air before slamming the phone down. Finally, he aimed his gun firmly at Nick, still yelling in Arabic. 

As Greg's apprehension widened with his eyes, Nick seemed to get the message and he stopped struggling against Mask's grip. Ali then directed his anger at Mask, his gun still pointed at Nick.

When Mask spoke, it was in English. "If he wants to trade, I do not see why we don't let him."

Ali looked furious, but Nick took this as a vote of support and he continued slowly, hoping he didn't convince Ali to pull the trigger. "I just think you should let the pregnant woman go. Please. I'll take her place with the hostages, but see you're technically holding two lives in your hands with her. Just let her go. It's an unborn child and its mother. Please, just let her go."

Ali had narrowed his eyes, but lowered his gun and simply glared at Nick for a long time. He said something to Mask, but his voice was quiet.

"La," Mask said, sounding firm. "La, Ali, la. Mish kwayes."

But a slow smile spread across Ali's face that flooded Nick with cold foreboding. He had a brief premonition of what was to come seconds before it happened, but only from looking at Greg who was sitting on the floor next to Ali, cradling Neil's body in his lap and frowning back at Nick in confusion. Without warning, Ali reached down and seized Greg by the arm, yanking him to his feet and Greg cried out as he felt the gun shoved into his temple.

"Technically," said Ali, "if she counts as two hostages, I could kill this one right now and then I wouldn't need to trade anyone."

The adrenaline rushed through Nick's body so fast, he was sure he could have lifted a truck without breaking a sweat. His mind raced ahead of him, trying to find someway to save his friend and finding only one that might work.

He fell to his knees in submission, staring at Ali with vacant eyes. "OK," he breathed. "I'll do whatever you want."

Mask shouted something in Arabic. Ali glanced at him fleetingly, then his eyes flew back to Nick. He threw Greg to the ground and grinned at Nick. "Good," he said. "Because I'd rather have a cooperative hostage than a hostile one."

"What?" Nick said, blinking. He was confused. Was Ali going to let the woman go?

"A word of advice, Mr. Stokes," Ali said, sounding smug. "Next time, don't put the life of another above your own. If you'd let me shoot your friend here, you would have gone free."

Ali barked orders to Mask, who nodded. A few of the others went to his aid and opened the door, letting the hostages out. Nick stayed behind, staring at Ali and glancing every so often at Greg to make sure he was OK. Greg was rubbing the shoulder of the arm Ali had yanked and with sickening dread, Nick noticed that something about it looked horribly wrong. His arm bone was jutting out of his skin and looked very awkward as it seemed to swell beneath Greg's shirt. Greg's face was contorted in pain as he reached for his lower arm. The pain would damn near kill him if he tried to put the shoulder back into place on his own, that was assuming he knew which direction to pull to put the bone back in the socket. Nick doubted he could do it without someone's help. Greg gritted his teeth and looked away from his shoulder when his eyes locked with Nick's gaze and he hesitated. Slowly, Nick nodded, sending him waves of encouragement. Forcing a smile through his rippling pain, Greg returned the nod and closed his eyes shut before he pulled on his lower arm.

His anguished cry sounded more like the roar of a lion and the color drained from Nick's face as Greg let go of his arm and wavered on the spot a little, looking dizzy before he finally passed out.

His shoulder was still dislocated.

Nick looked away from him and shuddered involuntarily. He hoped Greg would wake up soon. Worst case scenario, Greg might not have many hours left to live. Had Nick been paying attention to things outside of Greg, he would have noticed that by now, the excess hostages were gone, but he remained. He felt Mask's cold hand on his shoulder, which squeezed tightly and pushed Nick towards the stage.

Nick's eyes flew to the pregnant woman, Noah Berkowitz's wife, and realized that instead of a trade, he had made himself an addition to the twenty-four hostages, bringing the total up to twenty-five. But he had only allotted Sara twenty-four hours. What did that mean for Ali's schedule?

He realized, with an almost objective understanding, that he might only have a few hours left to live too.

"Why am I here?" he asked, mostly to himself, but he received an answer nonetheless as he was pushed onto the stage and forced to sit down with all the others.

"You were so eager to be a hostage," Ali said, "that I decided to humor you."

"I told you to let the woman go," Nick said. "What do you need a twenty-fifth hostage for?"

Ali shrugged casually. "You never know when one more could come in handy. I have fifteen men here, all of them armed, trained, and willing to die if it comes to that. Your friend Miss Sidle was wrong. This is a terrorist attack. We are trying to make a point. We are tired of the ceaseless slaughter of our Palestinian brothers and sisters. We are tired that the world is doing nothing about it. We are tired of the United States, the world's only superpower, selling guns to the Israeli Army so they can continue the massacre. They fight with American tanks and we resist with old and crudely made weapons left behind. Not any longer. Farah Ibrahim's death will be the last time that an Arab woman suffers at the hands of a Jew."

"How do you know that?" Nick repeated the same question he'd been asking from the start. "How can you be so _positive_ that her death was caused by a Jew, _let alone_ someone in this room?"

Ali was stone cold. "I know his identity because he had cause and reason. He hated her. And he was an Israeli sympathizing Jew. I don't need any more proof than that."

"Then why did you ask Sara to find the evidence?" Nick pointed out.

"To make them leave us alone," Ali retorted. "Keep them busy. Also it will force the killer into a confession. And my colleague asked for her specifically."

"So you don't care about what she finds," Nick said. "Only if it serves your purpose."

"Hopefully," said Ali, sounding arrogant, "the killer will confess before you are all dead. Now shut up."

Ali strolled down the steps of the stage, past a couple of his cronies. Mask stayed on the stage, watching the hostages. Ali looked at his watch than smiled up at the hostages. "It's twelve-thirty," he said smugly. "I suggest you make the most of the next half hour. One of you only has that long to live."

Ali turned away from the hostages and started muttering in Arabic to one of his underlings. Mask never took his eyes off the people on the stage however. Nick guessed he was playing warden.

"Thank you."

Nick spun around at the whispered words of gratitude and found himself face to face with a smiling Noah Berkowitz. His face was pale, and his hair was disheveled but his eyes were still filled with something Nick couldn't place. At least it was something other than despair, which was beginning to consume Nick.

"For what?" he said dully. "Being an idiot and offering myself up on a silver platter? I didn't do any good here. All I did was give them one extra hostage. I was an idiot to think they'd listen to me. They don't care at all."

"You tried," Noah said. "And that's what's important. God bless you."

Nick shifted and frowned at Noah. "You're Jewish, right?"

Noah nodded. "When I was a kid, my parents were so pro-Israel, I thought that everyone was. We deserved to be there, and terrorists were killing us. That's pretty much all I got. When I was in high school, I learned more about it, how the pro-Palestine people claim that it's _their_ home, that we didn't show up until after World War I, but we were _always_ there, in smaller minorities. The problem came with the influx of refugees from Europe, and we needed _somewhere _to feel safe and other than being welcomed we were denied our haven. For 3,000 years, before Islam even existed, Jews have talked about returning to the holy land. And it was organizations like the PLO and Hamas that was causing the problem. Palestine should have agreed to the 1947 agreement laid out by the UN and if they had, they would have had their own state by now and there wouldn't be as many refugees. I had so many reasons to support Israel and think that we were completely right and the Palestinians were making things difficult.

"But then I met Claire in college, and she reminded me that the Palestinians were suffering too. She told me a lot of things. Like how there were Israeli terrorist attacks that were less likely to make the American news due to the media bias. The 1947 agreement would have given the 1/3 Israeli minority fifty-five percent of all the land, which would have still been about fifty percent Muslim anyway. How the Israeli army and government has engaged in less than savory means in order to keep the population in check. How for every two Israeli lives lost, there are seven Palestinian lives lost. And granted, while the Palestinians have a greater population, those are _still_ people _dying_ and no one is doing anything about it.

"It was people like me, who supported Israel simply because I felt anything less would betray my faith, and people like _them_—" he nodded his head Ali and the terrorists, "—who have seen violence for so long they can't imagine a world without it, who perpetuate the conflict. Yitzak Rabin wasn't assassinated by a Palestinian. He was assassinated by an _Israeli_, one who opposed his signing of the Oslo accords. If you're assassinated _by your own people_ just for trying to negotiate _peace_, what hope is there?" Nick looked at him nervously, wondering momentarily of Noah expected him to answer, but Noah just continued.

"Well, there's education. There's learning to understand things from a different perspective than you're used to looking at things. That's why Claire and I founded this organization. So we can teach people that Muslims aren't all terrorists, and that it's possible to talk about issues like politics in a positive manner, to learn from each other, from history, and to appreciate each other for our differences. I am still a devout Jew, but I can respect any Muslim who adheres to the five pillars of Islam. I may not celebrate Ramadan, but I can prepare a mean Iftar for my friends who do. In a few weeks it will be Yom Kippur and Amira and Kareem, and Farah too, were going to come over to our place and celebrate with us. We can't do much. We're only a small group of people, but whatever we can do, we will."

Nick hadn't asked for the lecture, so when Noah paused he simply nodded, feeling awkward about what to say in response. "Uh huh," he said, nodding, his eyes wide.

Noah looked embarrassed. "Oh wow, I'm sorry," he said. "I'm kind of a putz. When I'm nervous I just tend to keep talking to try and calm me down, but it only makes people more awkward."

Nick grinned, actually feeling very reassured by this passionate man. "Nah, I feel a little better now too."

He heard a groan and his thoughts immediately flew back to Greg, who was lying on the stage looking deathly white.

"Is he gonna be OK?" Noah asked, nervously.

Nick ignored the question as he immediately crawled over to his friend to look at his shoulder. Greg let out another painful sigh.

"Goddammit…" he muttered turning his head. "My arm feels like somebody ripped it out of its socket."

Nick laughed lightly. "Somebody did," he said. He gently put his hand on Greg's upper arm. "Can you feel that?"

"My arm's got that tingly feeling… It's cold and feels like… bells… Tiny little bells." Greg said, turning his head to look at his shoulder. He saw the protruding bone and gave a start. "Wow. That looks unnatural."

Nick nodded and gripped his arm, putting his knee in Greg's arm pit. "OK, this is going to hurt."

"Hurt?" Greg whimpered, his eyebrows shooting up.

Nick tried to reassure him. "No more than it already does, though. And it will only be a moment."

"I know what you're doing," Greg said warily. "I tried that before. I think I passed out."

"You were pulling down," Nick pointed out. "You need to pull back. Roll over on your side a little."

Greg obliged as Nick held onto his arm, raising his knee slightly to keep it in Greg's arm pit. "How long was I out?" Greg asked.

"Not long," Nick replied. "Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes."

"Huh," said Greg.

"What?" Nick inquired, noting the oddness in Greg's tone.

"Nothing… It's just… That's fifteen or twenty minutes I don't got now," Greg replied.

Nick ignored this, and its deathly connotations. "OK," he said. "On three. Are you ready?" He didn't wait for an answer but saw Greg grit his teeth and screw his eyes shut tight. "One…" _Pop_!

"Yaaaaargh!" Greg roared and then stopped, his body still tense. His eyes snapped open and darted around. "Hey…" he said. "I'm awake…" As the shock wore off, he was suddenly angry as he turned on Nick. "Hey, you lied to me! You said on three!"

Nick smirked at him triumphantly. "Dude, you would have made an even bigger deal about it if I'd have said three. You were waiting for it. This way, it was a surprise, and look, you're all better."

Greg rotated his shoulder and winced slightly. "It's still sore… but not as bad as before. Hey! I think I'm getting the feeling back in my arm."

"It'll be sore for a while," said Nick. "The muscles and nerve endings are bruised. And let's hope you didn't fracture anything. That could bring a new world of trouble."

But Greg just kept rotating his shoulder, his lower lip sticking out in approval. "Nah, I think it'll be OK… Just wait for the swelling to go down and…" All of a sudden he panicked. "Nick, what time is it???"

At first surprised by the frantic question, Nick suddenly understood why he was so worried. He looked at his watch and swallowed. "Ten 'til."

But ten 'til when, it didn't matter to Greg. He could have been out for half an hour, or for five and a half hours, all it meant was that now that he was awake, he would have to witness another execution in ten minutes and he felt terrible for hoping that it was anyone else other than him. Greg bit his lip and glanced up at Nick. "Um… When you were, uh, underground…"

Nick's demeanor suddenly turned cold. He spoke quietly as his eyes wandered away towards the door. "Can we talk about something else?"

"No, because actually this is something that's been bugging me, and in ten minutes there's a one in twelve chance that one of us will be dead," Greg snapped, sounding a little too hostile than he'd meant to. He calmed down. "Sorry…" he muttered.

But he had at least attracted Nick's gaze back to him as his brow was furrowed in interest. "What's up, Greg?"

Greg rubbed his bad shoulder with his right hand. "Um… Well, when I got my ass kicked in that alley a few months back, and I was lying there after they left, waiting for the sun to rise I thought… I thought it never would. Not like I would die or anything like that… I figured if I'd survived that long, I could last ten minutes or so for the paramedics to show up and do their thing. No, it wasn't like that. It was like… I'd seen something in their eyes, you know, in the way they looked at me, that was just… dark. And they left me so bitter and cold that I felt like I'd never experience the sun the same way again. Violence can dislocate your shoulder, but hatred really kicks the shit out of your soul, you know what I mean? So I was just wondering. When you were underground, in that coffin, waiting to die, waiting to live, waiting for something at all to happen… Did you miss the sun?"

It was an odd question, and not one that Nick had expected from the young CSI. "Did I miss… the sun?"

Greg shifted, visibly uncomfortable now. "It was cold down there, wasn't it? And it was dark, especially when you shot out the light and… I don't know, I just thought… If it were me, I would have missed the sun."

His words clicked in Nick's head and he heard the real question that Greg was too afraid to ask him outright. _Violence can dislocate your shoulder, but hatred really kicks the shit out of your soul_… "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I missed the sun."

Greg nodded, satisfied with this answer. He pulled one knee to his chest and rested his chin on top of it. "Does that make me a bad person?"

"It's part of the human condition," Nick replied. "A survival mechanism. We tend to hate the people who've wronged us. They try to kill us, and so we want to kill them. Evil begets evil, and darkness breeds darkness. But you know… When I was staring down the barrel of that gun, that trigger looking mighty tempting… light did break through. It was starlight, sure, but light nonetheless, you know, and when they pulled me out…" Nick laughed, shaking his head at the memory of the relief that had swept through him at seeing Warrick's face, at hearing Grissom's voice… "We're never in complete darkness, Greg, not good people. There's always the stars to bring us home again. And that morning, I saw the sunrise. And I knew it would all be OK. And you have to understand that, to move on."

Greg looked up at him, his eyes inscrutable. "Starlight," he said. He looked over at Ali. "You think they can see the stars in Palestine?"

Nick followed his gaze. "Sometimes it's hard to see the stars through the smoke and fire."

Greg swallowed. "Do you, uh… Do you think we'll live to see another sunrise?"

Nick looked at his watch. Twelve fifty-nine. "I sure fucking hope so."

* * *

Sara ran her hands through her hair, her eyes glued to the screen as she ran the prints off of Farah Ibrahim's purse through AFIS. Hassan Ibrahim being a legal immigrant, his prints were already on file, as were hers, and so far both of their prints had been found on the purse. She was matching her last unknown and it refused to match anything yet. What if it wasn't in the system? They didn't have any suspects to compare it to. All the evidence in the world was _useless_ if he wasn't in the system. The case depended on it. 

She let out a frustrated groan and banged the desk.

"Hey," Archie said, making her jump.

"Dammit, Archie!" Sara cried out, then sighed and turned to him, looking stressed as she apologized. "Sorry, I'm a little on edge right now… What's up?"

"Your negotiator friend dropped this off," Archie said, holding up a CD before handing it to her. "I took the liberty of listening to it… I thought a fresh pair of ears couldn't hurt. Anyway, he's separated six different layers of sound… Wanna listen?"

Sara blew air through her lips. "No," she said. "Nothing on that CD will help me catch Farah Ibrahim's killer. I mean killers… Multiple shoe impressions. _Shit_, Archie, I mean… Doc. Robbins found semen in her stomach, DNA intact and everything, but Wendy is taking her sweet time matching it and AFIS isn't cooperating with me today and I got epithelials from her finger nail scrapings and even some dry blood. But none of this is going to do me _any_ good if this guy, or guys, aren't already in the system. But they've gotta be in the system, right? Four people can't just all magically go under the radar, I mean, how does somebody do that their whole life?"

Archie bit his lip, visibly awkward. "Uh… Well, since Brass is at the scene with the feds, you know, Sofia's looking and—"

Sara hit the desk in her frustration. " Sofia won't _find_ anything!" Sara exclaimed. "The more I hear about Farah Ibrahim, the more I realized that she _was_ a good woman, loved by her husband, loved by her friends, hell— people are committing acts of terrorism in her name, and while I'm sure a peace-loving woman like her wouldn't want that, it doesn't change the fact that she obviously had an effect on people. No. This was a random act of violence, and those are _always_ the hardest to catch because even when you get good solid evidence like we have, if there's no suspect to compare it to, you're sunk. We're all _sunk_ because I can't fucking figure out who killed this Muslim saint and since I can't do it I just single-handedly signed twenty-five death certificates! God _damn_ it!"

She buried her face in her hands, AFIS still running through prints as Archie just stood there, not knowing exactly what to do. He simply put the CD on the table and pushed it over to Sara.

"Listen to the fourth layer," he whispered in her ear, before straightening up and leaving.

Sara looked up over her fingers at the CD, which rested on the table tauntingly. With a sigh, she kicked away from the computer still scanning AFIS and wheeled over to the one across from it, sticking in the CD.

She saw the separated tracks immediately. The first was the conversation between Steve and the terrorist before Sara had even arrived. But Archie had told her to listen to the fourth layer, so she played it.

It was distant, but crystal clear. She heard Greg's voice. Greg's, and someone else's. The boy who'd been shot.

"_Don't_."

"_You're bleeding like crazy, I have to stop it._"

"_I'm… gonna… die._"

"_Nah, dude, you're gonna be OK. What's your name, kid?_"

Hearing his voice, sounding healthy, if a little upset, was such a relief to Sara that the tears tumbled out of her eyes unbidden and fell onto the keyboard as she sobbed.

"Sara?"

She jumped at the voice, then looked up to see Catherine standing in the doorway, watching her with ice blue eyes. Sara swallowed and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand, trying to compose herself in the older woman's presence. "I, uh… I'm sorry. I was waiting for results in AFIS, and Archie dropped this off…" She didn't like the dark look that crossed Catherine's fair features. "What's the matter? What's wrong?"

Catherine looked like she was trying hard to remain stoic. "It's 1:05. They shot another hostage five minutes ago."


	6. Darkness Creeping

**_Author's Note:_** I saw Spiderman 3 yesterday at midnight. SO awesome. I just wanted to tell everyone that. Hahaha. OK. I know you guys hate cliffhangers. Here's a little less of one. Also, I'm glad to see I'm sparking interest! But as I said in the beginning, I don't mean to advocate for one side or the other (if it comes off that I do, then I'm sorry). Mostly, I encourage you to learn as much as you can and come to your own conclusions, and maybe spread awareness of a conflict that has gone on for so long, and yet is not often in the public eye anymore. Enjoy!

* * *

_"You asked me about non-violent resistence, and I mentioned the first intifada. The vast majority of Palestinians right now, as far as I can tell, are engaging in Gandhian non-violent resistence... Who do you think these families are that I tell you about, who won't take any money from us even though they are very, very poor, and who say to us: 'We are not a hotel. We help you because we think maybe you will go and tell people in your country that you lived with Muslims. We think they will know that we are good people. We are quiet people. We just want peace'? Do you think I'm hanging out with Hamas fighters? These people are being shot at every day and they continue to go about their business as best they can in the sights of machine guns and rocket launchers. Isn't that basically the epitome of non-violent reistence?"_

**Rachel Corrie, in an e-mail response to her mother while staying in Rafah.**

* * *

He didn't even know her name, and this grieved him gravely. Nick watched Greg a few feet away as he stroked the hair of Ali's latest victim, closing her eyes with his fingers so as to avoid looking at that lifeless gaze. He knew Greg was taking these deaths far too hard. And every hour it would just wear him down a little more until there would be nothing left. He wondered if it would be easier for Greg if he was the next one gunned down. He knew that if Greg was the last of all of them to die, he would already be broken if he continued on like this. 

He cursed himself for thinking in such dark ultimatums. No, it would be worse if Greg was the next to die. Because if they both just held on long enough, Grissom and the team would think of something. Grissom _always_ thought of something. Though his social skills were limited at best, he always had a way of coming through for people, especially in seemingly impossible situations. Grissom would get them out of there. It was just what he _did_.

Then why did he feel the darkness inside him? It was twisting his stomach in knots as it expanded its thread-like tentacles up to his heart, weaving in and out of his blood stream like a poison, slowly wrapping around his brain and threatening to constrict like a serpent. He was losing the sun again, and he hated that.

So he had to think of the worst case scenario. Worst case scenario, Grissom failed, Sara failed, they all _failed_, and Nick and Greg would die, and everyone in that room would die. And he had to prepare for that.

Nick walked over to Greg but did not dare touch him as he cradled the woman's body in his lap just as he had cradled Neil Silverman's body in his lap. But Greg sensed his presence and when he spoke, it was toneless.

"She had a little girl."

"I know," Nick said. "I remember."

"I don't know why… I've seen death so much you know, but these people… It's just completely senseless and I don't understand it."

Nick kneeled down next to Greg and the woman's body. "You can't get emotionally invested in these people," he whispered. "If you keep upsetting yourself over every victim then you won't last long at all. Think of it like a case, Greg. They're dead, and there's nothing we can do but help bring their murderer to justice."

"But we can't even do that," Greg muttered. "Not if we become victims too. And they're _not_ dead, Nick, not yet."

Nick rose to his feet and his voice was so dark that Greg was afraid Nick had already lost any optimism he had left. If only he had heard Nick's previous internal rationalization, he would have known otherwise. The words were just as much to harden Nick's courage as they were to convince Greg. "They might as well be."

Greg looked up at him, not knowing to be appalled at this philosophy or impressed. "We all might as well be then," he reminded Nick. "I might as well be, you might as well be—"

"We're all _dead_, Greg, don't you get that?" Nick snapped back at him in a harsh and hissing tone. "There's no _way_ Sara will be able to process the evidence and bring in and find a suspect in twenty-four hours, even with the whole lab on it, and even if by some wacky, insane miracle she does, most of these people in here, and quite possibly you or me or both of us will be dead by the time she does. I _highly_ doubt that whoever killed Farah Ibrahim is in this room, and even if he was, you think a man who could _do_ what he did to another human being will sacrifice himself for people he doesn't even _know_? These men are _terrorists_, Greg, they don't value human lives at all, not even their _own_ fucking lives, all they know is death and destruction and-and-and making their _fucking_ points! But they never _make_ their points, because no one _cares_ about their _points,_ they just care that their _families_ are dead! These terrorists, these crazy extremist psychopaths, just breed more hatred and grief and soon someone will strike back at _their_ families because of it, and it's just this relentless cycle and it won't stop."

Greg stared down at the body. He may have been too connected to the victims, but in his opinion, Nick had suffered a grave disconnect from everything, and that wasn't much better.

"You have to have a little bit of hope, Nick," he said quietly. "Even if it's unfounded." He looked up at his friend and grinned, trying to use his wacky personality to maybe bring some laughter to Nick's tone. "How about we make plans? For when we get out of here. What do you think about hitting Lake Mead or something like that? Catching that new Adam Sandler movie. That'll give you something to look forward to."

"I never look forward to Adam Sandler," Nick said, but he was smiling nonetheless. He felt the slimy darkness creeping away from his heart and relinquishing its tight grip on his mind. Worst case scenarios aside, Greg was still there, and so was he, and Greg was still cracking jokes and… so was he. He needed to have faith in Grissom, like Grissom always seemed to have faith in him.

Greg gently laid the woman's body on the floor and pulled her shirt down, straightening out the wrinkles in a caring gesture. He folded her arms across her stomach before he rose to his feet. He and Nick stood side by side, looking down at the body in silence like some poor excuse for a vigil. Neither one of them said a word as they watched her, as though expecting her to open her eyes and suddenly say, 'I'm alive! Fooled you!'

But just as Nick wasn't as disconnected as he'd seemed, Greg was not as optimistic. It wasn't her death that bothered Greg so much more than it was the reminder of his own deadline which was indefinite but fast approaching. Every time a hostage died, he thanked God it wasn't him, or Nick, and he felt guiltier for that than anything in his life. When the hour mark loomed near, he always tensed, but when he saw Ali select someone else, his body automatically relaxed as he now made himself look away from every murder. And he felt bad for feeling so relieved at another human being's demise, but he couldn't help it. Nick had been mistaken when he assumed that Greg's grief was due to the fact that another hostage had died. Greg mourned for his loss of perspective. For the loss of the little piece of himself in every gun shot that was fired, slowly stripping away his desire to help anyone else but Nick and himself.

It was every man for himself now. So much for the Three Musketeers and their famously clichéd motto.

Greg was suddenly cold and he rubbed his arms. His shoulder was still sore and was a little bruised, but he doubted there was any lasting damage. He looked up at Nick who was still staring down at the body.

"I wonder what's going to happen to that little girl…" Nick muttered. "Did she have a father? If so, he wasn't here."

"She's probably outside, waiting for her mom to run on out," Greg replied.

"Her and everyone else's families," Nick said. "Her and the whole Goddamn lab, I bet you anything."

"I'll take that bet," Greg said. "I'll bet their all down at the lab trying to meet Ali's demands."

"What do you think Grissom is doing right now?" Nick asked, almost rhetorically. "What do you think is going through his head?"

"Nick, I couldn't guess what Grissom was thinking on a good day," Greg answered with a laugh. He smelled the pungent scent of smoke and then heard someone complain.

"Excuse me, you can't smoke in here."

Nick and Greg both turned around to see the Latina business woman leaning against the back wall of the stage with a cigarette resting casually between her two fingers, although her posture was anything but casual. She looked incredibly tense as her free hand tapped against her hip nervously and she took shuddering breaths every time she took a drag off her cigarette. She blew out a fume of smoke and glared at Noah, who had been the one to snap at her.

"Fuck you," she said.

"My wife is pregnant," Noah argued. "It's not healthy for her, or for you."

The woman rolled her eyes and tapped her foot as she folded her free arm under the elbow which held the cigarette. "Figures," she muttered, eyes on the ceiling, purposefully ignoring Noah. "Out of all the people in the world, I have to be held hostage with the health nut who wants to lecture me about smoking." She was shaking as if on a caffeine high as she took another deep drag off her cigarette. "Fucking freaks."

"You, uh… You got one to spare?" Greg called over to her, earning himself a confused glance from Nick. The woman looked at him with bright brown eyes before smiling slightly and digging in her purse for her pack and offering one to Greg.

"Greg, you don't smoke…"

Greg shrugged, ignoring Nick as he strode over to the woman and took the proffered cigarette. "Thanks," he said to her, putting it in his mouth as she brought out her lighter and lit it with quaking hands. Greg coughed as he inhaled, his face etched in an expression of surprise. He made the woman laugh.

"You act like you've never had a cigarette before," the woman chuckled.

Greg furrowed his brow at her as he smacked his lips and looked at the cigarette which was clutched between his fingers, letting off ribbons of smoke. He let out another cough and shook his head. "Not even as a teenager," he replied. "My mother had the nose of a bloodhound. If I stood within five feet of a smoker, she'd smell it on my clothes. I was too terrified of her to even risk trying it."

The woman smiled. "My name is Isabella," she said. "I work for Sandscorp International. We sponsor this organization in order to better our image, and hope to maybe get a few clients." She nodded at the bulletin board at the far end of the room. "See? That's our poster."

Greg didn't know if he wanted to know that much about her. He knew it would only make him feel guiltier when he felt relieved to watch her die. "I'm Greg," he said simply. "I actually have no real reason for being here." He looked quizzically at his cigarette before timidly attempting another drag. He still coughed a little, but it was better than before.

"Could you please put those out?" Noah called again. Greg looked over his shoulder at the man, who was sitting against the wall holding his wife's hand. She was leaning her head on his shoulder, feigning sleep. He smiled at him, and looked at the cigarette in his hand before putting it out against the wall.

"Hey!" Isabella exclaimed. "You just wasted a perfectly good smoke!"

Greg shrugged as he looked at the extinguished cigarette. "I guess it wasn't really my thing," he said.

Isabella glared at him a moment before she stubbornly looked away as she finished her own cigarette.

Greg felt kind of bad so he moved closer to her and leaned against the wall next to her, staring up at the ceiling. "So, do you have a family?"

She scoffed at the question. "Right now, I'm engaged to my job," she said, flashing him a bitingly sardonic look.

Greg frowned. "What? Isn't the term 'married' to your job?"

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Nope, just one long-ass engagement. Can't set a date, see. I would gladly devote my whole life to my career, if I got that promotion. I've been striving for it for three years now, and the bastards hold it right out of reach. Always, 'just after you handle this case.' If this goes on long enough, I might have to break it off."

"And maybe have a real relationship…?" Greg suggested with a half-hearted shrug.

Isabella extinguished her cigarette and tossed it on the floor, crushing it with the toe of her black high heal. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Relationship, yeah, sure. Who am I kidding? I'm not getting out of here. None of us are getting _out _of here. I'm never gonna get that promotion, I'm never gonna have sex on my boss's desk with the mail boy again, I'm never gonna throw out that two-week old take out in the back of my fridge… Ugh! The fucking _irony_ of everything, it's just… I mean, this is an organization of _peace_ and we're in here getting executed like criminals or-or-or cows at the goddamn slaughterhouse!" She sniffed. "And to think the only one who'll miss me is my fucking cat." She paused, then added as an afterthought, "And even _that_ thing stays outside most of the time, only jumping in my window to eat and then leave again. Shit."

Greg nodded, his brow still furrowed in thought. He turned his head to look at her, this beautiful woman in her thirties, jittery with fear and nicotine, trying to find something to hold onto in this volatile world to keep her from losing it. She seemed to feel his gaze as she, too, turned her head and met his chestnut eyes with her warm mocha ones. They narrowed momentarily, her defenses raised, but then softened when he wasn't deterred. He simply watched her for a very long time, dismantling every last wall she had constructed since she was a teenager with nothing but his knee-buckling, penetrating, laser-like stare.

He didn't know why he did it. Maybe it was because he felt sorry for her. Or maybe it was because he needed to feel something, anything but the mind-boggling knowledge of his impending doom twisting his soul into something it wasn't. For whatever reason, it was sudden and zealous as he slid his hand behind her neck and pulled her into a hungry kiss, the craving to taste something beautiful ripping through his senses.

She didn't taste like he thought she would. He licked the nicotine off of her lips and the bitter tang of tobacco coated her tongue, but he didn't care. It was still a refreshing change from the blood and bile that was mingling in the back of his throat.

She, for her part, returned the kiss with a vengeance, her fingers crawling up his back sending shivers like electric shocks down his spine. The grip he held on the back of her neck tightened at the base of her skull, catching her silky ebony hair between his fingers.

Their passion ended, as everything often did in this fickle new world, with a gunshot.

They broke apart immediately, their gaze darting to the source of the bang and they saw Ali with his gun pointed in the air. He had shot a hole clear through the ceiling, and bits of it were crumbling down on him, but he didn't seem to care. He was glaring furiously at Greg and Isabella.

"Just what the hell was that?" he demanded of them.

Dumbstruck, Isabella turned to Greg who knew if anyone was going to answer Ali's question it would have to be him. He shrugged. "What, you've never seen two people kiss before?"

Ali aimed the gun at him. "I'll have none of that debauchery in here. Sit down and shut the fuck up," he said, annoyed. More out of fatigue than obedience, Greg leaned against the wall and slid down into a sitting position, his eyes never leaving Ali for a minute. Isabella looked down at him, a curious expression etched in her dark eyes. "You too, habibti," Ali called to Isabella. She nodded too and sat down next to Greg.

"What _was_ that?" she asked him.

"That was me," Greg told her, "trying to feel alive."

* * *

This time, the terrorists hadn't called after they'd killed the third hostage, and they weren't answering any attempts by the negotiator either. So Grissom had no idea who had been killed. He wondered if he even wanted to know. 

He closed his eyes as he leaned back in his chair, wondering if he would be more useful at the lab. As if jumping up to answer his question like a faithful dog, his cell phone began to vibrate and sing, vying for his attention. With a tired stretch, Grissom reached to answer it.

"Grissom."

"Who did they shoot?"

Grissom sighed. She was anxious, which meant she probably hadn't made much progress. "I don't know, Sara."

"It wasn't Greg or Nick, was it?"

"I don't know, Sara," he repeated again, his voice level. "How are you coming processing the evidence?"

"I'm not," Sara said. "I never realized how long this took until I got a deadline. Wendy is still mapping the DNA from the semen and hairs we found on her skirt, she's going as fast as she can, and then she still has to run it through CODIS. Meanwhile, I kicked Mandy out of her own lab and have been staring at AFIS giving me _nothing_ for the past hour now and Catherine tells me they've shot another hostage, I just want to know who it is."

"Believe me, Sara, I understand your frustration," Grissom said, his voice the epitome of calm. "But you have to keep working. What are Warrick and Catherine doing, I sent them to help you."

"Bah," Sara said, sounding frustrated. "I saw Catherine, she was wondering what she could do and I didn't have anything for her, Grissom. I already made molds of the shoe impressions on the vic, I've already ran the skid marks on the road and sent out an alert on a 2004 Volkswagen Touareg but without plates, it's all pretty much useless. All we have is _useless_ because there's _nothing_ to compare it to!"

"Where's Warrick?" Grissom asked.

"Warrick?" Sara said. "I haven't seen Warrick since I was at the scene."

"He should be there," Grissom said, a sliver of irritation creeping into his steady tone. "Why isn't he there?"

"I'm not answer-girl, Grissom, if anything I'm question-girl. I have so fucking many."

"Sara, I have to call Warrick…" Grissom said.

"And we don't know who was shot?" Sara pressed.

"It doesn't matter who," Grissom told her. "You're working to save the lives of the people who haven't been shot yet."

"My God, Grissom, what if—"

"Just work the case, Sara, that's all I can tell you," Grissom interrupted sternly, unwilling to hear her scenarios.

Sara sounded like she was choking back tears. "OK," she said. "Fine. Bye."

Grissom hung up and dialed Warrick. It rang almost six times before the CSI finally answered.

"Brown." His tone was dejected and empty.

"Where are you?" Grissom demanded. "I thought I told you to help Sara with her case?"

"You did," Warrick agreed, but said nothing beyond that.

"So… why does she tell me that she hasn't seen you?"

Warrick sighed on the other end of the line. "I'm in my car," he replied. "Outside the crime lab. I don't… I can't seem to move."

Grissom didn't know whether to be angry or concerned. "What do you mean you can't move?"

"We don't save people, Grissom," Warrick said. "We speak for the dead. And… And I don't want to speak for Nick, or Greg. Not if I can help it."

"Nick and Greg are still alive," Grissom said.

"As far as you know."

He couldn't argue with that. "Warrick, if you help Sara—"

"Sara doesn't need help, Grissom. She's on hyper drive and she's still getting nothing. There's nothing we can do. Processing evidence takes time, and we've already collected and submitted everything we could find. We have no suspects, Sofia's been looking through her day planner and her cell phone to find _anyone_ who might have known her, and you know most of them are in that fucking building. There's nothing I can _do,_ Grissom. And I… I _hate_ that."

Grissom swallowed, understanding all too well the feeling. "We do what we can, Warrick, and beyond that all we can do is pray."

"I can't even do that," Warrick said with a sad laugh. "I get this… this feeling that God doesn't care anymore. That we screwed up, and we keep killing each other, and He just said, 'Fuck it, I'm out of here.' I have this feeling that He's just not listening anymore. Because we never learn. And we never will."

"Why don't you go home?" Grissom suggested evenly. "I'll call you if there's any change."

Warrick let out a long sigh on the other end of the line. "Why Sara? I mean, why did they ask _for Sara_?"

"What do you mean?" Grissom asked, surprised by this sudden change in topic.

"The terrorists asked to speak… with Sara. What good is that going to do, talking to Sara? Dropping this deadline on us like an atom bomb… What the hell good is that gonna do?"

Grissom bit his lip. "You'd rather they asked for you?" he asked tentatively.

"I don't know what I'd rather they asked for," Warrick replied honestly. "No. No, wait. I'd _rather_ they'd let everyone go. I'd _rather_ they never did anything this stupid in the first place— Hell! I'd rather someone just went in their right now and shot all of those crazy bastards in the head because as far as I'm concerned, they aren't don't deserve to keep living. If they're willing to die to prove some fucking point, then let them die for all I care, but there's no _logic_ in taking innocent lives down with them. People who… who had absolutely _nothing_ to do with whatever the _fuck_ they're fighting for. _Fuck_!"

Grissom hated talking about these things. It only made him feel worse. His friends were stressed out of their minds and none of them felt like anything they did was helping. And he could sympathize. But he couldn't let on that he sympathized. It was time for him to embody the role of leader and somehow guide them all through this, although he would never admit to them that he had no idea how he was going to do that. "Warrick, we'll find something. We'll figure something out. We'll save as many people as we can, and get justice for the ones that we couldn't."

"I need a drink," Warrick said suddenly.

"Well you've been given the night off," Grissom said. "So whatever you do with it now is your business, not mine."

"I'm always your business, Grissom," Warrick reminded him with the hint of a smile in his exhausted voice. "We're all your business. Always."

Grissom had to smile in agreement, but didn't comment. "Goodnight, Warrick."

"Call me if there's any change with anything," Warrick said.

"Likewise," Grissom replied. He hung up before giving Warrick the chance to ask what he'd meant.

Grissom pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it a moment. He looked through his phonebook, which was a short list considering how few people he ever actually called. He had the strange question of what he would do with these numbers, if it just so happened that he one day no longer needed one of them. If Nick or Greg died, would he keep their number in his phone book? Or would he delete it?

It seemed a very stupid question, but one that plagued Grissom all the same. If he kept the number in his phone book, he knew every time he'd pass it he would want to call it, just to see if maybe, just maybe, his old friend would answer the phone and he'd find himself talking to a ghost. But Grissom didn't believe in ghosts. But if he deleted the number, would that mean he was erasing any trace of his friend from his life? Would it be a form of betrayal?

His finger lingered over the talk button as the phone highlighted Nick's name. He knew Greg's phone had probably been confiscated, but Nick's? When he'd tried Nick's number before, he simply hadn't answered, probably because he had been unable to at the time. But what about now? Would he be able to hear that southern drawl coming from his old friend's lips? Or would he never hear Nick's voice again?


	7. Poisoned Lips

_**Author's Note:**_ About what happened to Isabella in the last chapter: I said no pairings and I meant it. It just served as a very convenient plot device so I could write THIS chapter... One of your hated cliffhangers. But enjoy. Oh, and by the way, your reviews make my day, you're all so awesome. Additionally, a few characters in this story (like Isabella) are composite characters based on people I know and characters I've read about. Inspiration for Isabella comes from Jose Rivera's beautiful play _Marisol_ from the title character. I'll mention other character inspirations as they come up. And while I talk about lose interpretations of religion in this chapter, I am not condemning strict interpretations either (for example, while Ali is a strict Muslim, so was Farah, and Noah is also a very devout Jew.) I just wanted to clarify, so no one thought I was preaching. Great!

* * *

_"The Israelis are mistaken if they think we do not have an alternative to negotiations. By Allah I swear they are wrong. The Palestinian people are prepared to sacrifice the last boy and the last girl so that the Palestinian flag will be flown over the walls, the churches and the mosques of Jerusalem."_

** Yasser Arafat, in a speech given on 6 August 1995 at a party to celebrate the birth of his daughter (Haaretz, 6 September 1995; The Jerusalem Post, 7 September 1995)**

* * *

"Excuse me," said Jared as he sat down next to Greg. "I, uh… I just wanted to thank you." 

Greg looked at him with mild curiosity. "I didn't do anything."

"You did everything for my stepbrother," Jared replied. "It, uh… It means a lot. To me."

"He was your stepbrother?" Greg hadn't known that. "You two were close, then?"

"Yeah," said Jared. "He always sort of looked up to me. I'm twenty-two, on my college basketball team, and he was sixteen and captain of the chess club… He always wanted to be more like me, so I taught him some lay-ups and things. He was going to try out for the basketball team next fall, and if I may say so, I think he would have made it… My dad's Jewish, but his mom is Catholic. Neither of our families is super religious, so Dad didn't care that Bonnie wasn't Jewish so long as she took his name and took care of us. I was eight when he married Bonnie, and Neil was just a tyke. My mom died when I was four, so I never really knew her… And when Neil and Bonnie came, I liked being a big brother. It was kind of… cool."

Jared shifted and looked up at the ceiling. "I was raised to believe that religion was like a guide, of sorts. When you're lost, or you don't know what to do, just read the Torah, Dad would say. He didn't see religion as something to be pushed on people. It was a personal relationship with God. And he loved that Bonnie thought of her Catholicism the same way. She wore a cross, and he had a Star of David tattooed on his shoulder. We didn't go to synagogue or church… We did things our own way. Funny, isn't it? Two very lose interpretations of two otherwise very strict religions. So when I heard about this group from my roommate, I thought, perfect! I mean, who embodies the joining of faiths better than my brother and me?" Jared shook his head sadly. "It's our first time here, today. I thought it would be good for my brother. Instead I just end up getting him killed. A guy is supposed to be able to look out for his kid brother. And up until today, I always thought I'd done a good job. I kept him off drugs and out of trouble. I picked him up from a party once, drunk off his ass, and I took care of him, and told him, 'That's why you wait until you can handle it, kiddo…' I didn't tell our folks. A brother does that sort of thing. But I… I couldn't help him. But you did. And I just wanted to thank you for that."

Greg felt exceptionally awkward as he shook his head at this optimistic young man. "No, see… You _did_ help him. You were there for him. You held his hand. I… I was just a stranger who didn't know what to do."

"He thanked you too," Jared reminded Greg, who would rather not remember the boy's last words. "Which meant you had _some_ kind of effect on him. Neil was a good kid. And I just wanted to make sure that you knew how grateful I was, for your kindness to him in his last few moments. I think you're a good person, sir. I hope you do well. I will pray for you."

Greg didn't like the idea of this stranger feeling he owed him something, because Greg had just been trying to be a good Samaritan. This person, this kid, didn't owe him anything.

"Greg."

He looked up at the sound of Nick's voice and smiled at his friend who returned it, but his eyes were sad. He crouched down in front of Greg and looked down before looking up again and meeting Greg's eyes. "What's up?" Greg asked, trying to sound bright and cheery. But he couldn't help feeling it was a stupid question. _'What's up?'_ Greg thought to himself sarcastically. _Right. Well, for starters, we're being held hostage in a community center by extremists who are killing dozens for vengeance on the death of one woman. But other than that, things were swell._

Nick frowned and shook his head. "I don't know, Greg, I just…" His face scrunched up, like he wasn't sure how to say the next words. He bit his lip and Greg let him struggle a moment before he saved him the trouble.

Greg grinned at him. "Yeah," he said. "Me too."

Nick stopped searching for words and nodded. Nick just wanted to keep Greg nearby. For no particular reason other than it comforted him. It comforted both of them.  
All of a sudden, Nick looked very surprised. "What's wrong?" Greg asked, nervously, but Nick put a finger to his lips hushing him.

"Could you cover me?" he whispered, looking over his shoulder at Ali, who was standing by the door.

"Cover you?" Greg didn't understand, but Nick grabbed him and quickly pushed Greg in front of him as he faced the wall and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Suddenly understanding, Greg nodded fervently, and enlisted Isabella and Jared's aid.

"Hey!" he hissed to both of them, and rounded them in close. The three of them rose to their feet, blocking a crouched Nick from view as they tried to act casual.

"Grissom?" Greg heard Nick whisper into the phone. His heart leapt into his throat and it was hard for him to strike up a conversation with Isabella and Jared.

"So!" he said loudly to Isabella. "How are you holding up?" He kept one ear over his shoulder, listening with hungry hope that maybe this phone call could save them all.

"Yeah, he's fine," Nick said. "I'm OK, too, we're both fine, for right now, but Grissom, you've got to figure something out because these people _aren't kidding_…"

"Actually, to be honest, I've been thinking about that kiss."

"What?" Greg blinked. He'd forgotten what they were talking about.

Nick was still talking in hurried whispers. "I don't know, Grissom, honestly—"

"Greg?"

"_What_?" Greg snapped.

Isabella scowled at him. "Don't you have anything to say about that?"

"Frankly, no," Greg replied. "Because this conversation isn't really happening." He gestured at Nick behind them.

Isabella's eyes narrowed as she folded his arms. "I was wrong. You're an asshole."

"He's not an asshole!" Jared jumped in.

Isabella ignored him. "Why did you kiss me?" she pressed.

"Sh!" Greg hushed, his eyebrows shooting up to remind her that this was only a cover conversation. "If you want to talk about the weather, or the latest episode of your favorite TV episode, go right ahead, but don't expect me to pay attention."

Isabella folded her arms and looked away from Greg, annoyed.

Greg tried desperately to make out Nick's nervous whispers.

"… Fifteen of them," Nick was saying. "The leader's name is Ali. One of them is wearing a mask, but the rest of them—"

All sound was instantly muted by the sensation of her lips on his. It caught him by such a great surprise that he staggered backwards into Nick and would have fallen over his friend, had Isabella's hands not firmly grasped his back and steadied him.

Nick looked up at him however and spoke in a mixture of amusement and annoyance. "Greg, what the hell are you doing?"

Greg tried to shrug but found his body wouldn't obey. On the contrary, his hands decided they'd much rather explore this dark beauty who was keen on diving into him. She guided him around Nick and pushed him against the wall, devouring him with her soft kisses and commanding caresses.

All of a sudden, she broke the kiss and glared at him with her piercing mocha eyes. "So was _that_ nothing?" she demanded.

Greg's mind was reeling. "Uh…"

She pushed him hard and he stumbled backwards into the wall as she stalked off. He looked around to see both Jared and Nick staring up at him, the phone still to Nick's ear.

"What the hell is going on over there?" Ali shouted from the door, marching over to them. Nick was fast and instantly shoved the phone back in his pocket as he jumped to his feet. Greg's hair was disheveled and the quickly growing hickey on his neck was quick to betray his recent adventure with the sexy Latina. Ali's eyes were fixed stoutly on him.

"You were kissing that slut again, weren't you?" Ali shouted. "After I _clearly_ told you both to _stop_ it."

Nick and Greg exchanged furtive glances before their eyes returned to Ali. "No, not really, I mean—"

"Quiet!" Ali interrupted harshly. He looked down at his watch. "Well. It's 1:55."

All the blood in Greg's body abandoned his brain and gravitated to the floor, making his feet feel incredibly heavy and his head incredibly light as he swooned on the spot. His eyes darted over to Isabella, who was at the other end of the stage by now, but she was watching him too, over her shoulder, her bright eyes anxious behind those luscious lashes as they filled with tears.

Ali called over his shoulder to one of his men in Arabic, who responded sharply and quickly. The leader turned back to his hostages and smiled. "Youssef thinks that five minutes won't make a difference." He raised his gun and aimed it straight at Greg. "I don't mind shooting you now."

A loud bang rang out across the hall.

Somebody called out his name. Hysterical and wild, it echoed in Greg's head louder than the gunshot and branded itself on his brain.

Greg fell to the floor and felt the blood staining his shirt as the scene around him spun and he watched with bewildered eyes as the unstable world he had come to know was now twisted completely upside down, and Greg tumbled down the rabbit hole of surrealism and found himself smack in the middle of an obscene Rene Magritte painting filled with blood and broken promises, empty houses and lost dreams…

* * *

When Grissom had initially gotten a hold of Nick, he had been thrilled. 

_"Grissom?"_ He was breathless and anxious, his heart daring to hope that maybe this phone call would be his life buoy that would help keep his head above water until they could escape.

Grissom couldn't help but laugh out loud at the sound of Nick's voice. He immediately gestured to Steve, who hooked up some equipment and tapped into the signal, recording the call between Grissom and Nick. "Yeah, Nick, it's me. What's going on in there, is everything OK? We hear the gunshots, but they're not calling us to tell us who they killed. Is Greg OK?" He waited for Nick's response, and his grin spread to hear that Greg was indeed unharmed. "And you? You're fine? You're not hurt, you're holding up in there, Nicky?" Nick again replied in the affirmative.

_"But Grissom," _he was saying. _"You've got to figure something out because these people_ aren't kidding. _I've watched them kill three people so far, and I may have been the reason for one of them. A girl, late twenties, early thirties, she was… She was just there, and I told them to let the women go and—"_

"Nick," Grissom interrupted. "Don't worry about that now. Who else has been killed?"

Nick swallowed, composing himself before continuing._ "Other than her, they've killed a kid, a teenage kid, Grissom, and the mother of a little girl. I have no idea who's next, it could be me, it could be Greg, I don't know, Grissom, honestly. They are showing _no mercy_ here, so if you guys are going to figure something out, you better damn well do it fast."_

"OK, Nick, calm down," Grissom said, fighting to follow his own advice. "How many of them are there?"

_"I count fifteen of them. The leader's name is Ali. One of them is wearing a mask, but the rest of them aren't, Grissom, and that's bad news, I think that means they're willing to— what the— Greg, what the hell are you doing?!"_

There was a clatter of sound and the hint of a woman's voice shouting. Suddenly, the familiar voice of the leader rang out in Grissom's ear, but he only heard half of the sentence, although he could fill in the rest.

_"What the hell is going_—"

The phone snapped shut and Grissom was listening to a dead line. He looked at Steve, who was watching the sound waves jump on the screen in front of him. Steve turned to look at Grissom and shrugged. Grissom felt a hand grip his shoulder and looked up to see Brass fixing him with a hard stare.

"That was good thinking on your part, Gil," he said. "We got a lot of information from that."

Grissom forced himself to nod as his heart tried desperately to escape his ribcage and jump out of his chest, it was beating so fast. He tried to calm his nerves, reason with the ecstatic adrenaline that was shooting through him after just speaking with a friend he had, for defense purposes, assumed the worst about. Nick was alive, and so was Greg. There was still hope of saving both of them. Maybe they could save more than just Nick and Greg that night too. Grissom desperately wished for it all to be over.

And for one lucky hostage, it suddenly was.

Everyone in the van heard the gunshot loud and clear, and Grissom felt for a moment that it had stripped straight through his own chest as it murdered all the hope and elation that had been blooming inside of him.

He gripped the back of Steve's chair as he stared at the time on the computer. But it wasn't yet two o'clock! They were still a good ten minutes away from the hour!

"Steve, is that clock slow?" he asked.

"Only by five minutes," Steve replied. He knew what Grissom was thinking.

"What do you think Greg was doing, before Nick hung up on you?" Brass asked anxiously.

Grissom shivered and his eyes darted around, looking for something mundane to watch other than look anyone in the eye. "I don't know," he muttered. "But I hope to God it wasn't something stupid."

* * *

Catherine was glad that she had finally been successful in something. She had identified the shoe prints: there were four different ones. Three of them belonged to men's sneakers, various kinds, one a Converse size ten, an Adidas Shelltoe Superstar size nine, and a Nike AirMax 360, also size ten. The third impression was a high heal, which for some reason bothered Catherine immensely. It was one thing for men to brutally attack and violate a woman, but for another woman to join in? It just felt like betrayal, pure and simple. 

She was about to share her results with Sara when her phone rang. She looked down to see Grissom calling and immediately answered.

"Willows."

"Catherine…" His voice was strained. This was new for Grissom.

"What's wrong?" she said quickly.

"I don't know, and that's the problem," he replied. "They shot someone five minutes early. Probably because they were causing trouble. We have reason to be it might have been Greg."

Catherine didn't know what to make of this. "What do you mean, 'reason to believe?' That doesn't mean it _was_ Greg…"

"What was Greg?" Sara was standing in the door and startled Catherine who looked up at her like a deer caught in the headlights.

Catherine took a deep breath. "Grissom, I have to go. Sara's here, and I have evidence for her."

"When you tell her…" Grissom said slowly. "Tell her we don't _know_. At this point, every shot is a bad shot, whether it kills someone or not. It's another case. She has to keep a level head here, Catherine. We all do."

Catherine was nodding before she realized that Grissom couldn't see her. "Of course," she said. "I'll talk to you later." She hung up and fixed Sara with a hard stare. "They've shot another hostage, five minutes early."

There was no visible change in Sara as she nodded. "Greg…?"

"They don't know," Catherine answered honestly.

"What did you find about the shoe prints?" She was changing the subject, focusing on the case like she knew she needed to, although Catherine was sure her mind was in that community center with Greg and Nick.

Catherine, too, launched back into work. "Four different prints, three men, one woman. Unless one is a transvestite, that is."

Sara nodded. "Wendy found similar results in DNA," Sara said. "But they're not in CODIS. AFIS came back with nothing. Have you heard from Sofia?"

"No dice on the phone contacts," Catherine replied. "She's going through her address book now. Most of her contacts are in Kuwait, and the ones here in Vegas are no help. It's looking more and more like a random act, which sucks for us because it means unless they screw up again, we have _nothing_."

"And we need something," Sara said. "Something within the next twenty-four hours…" She rubbed her arms to warm them. "I have a friend from Dubai. I met her in college. Her name is Maha. Anyways, I hadn't talked to her in… years, really. Last year, her husband was murdered, so, she calls me up, because she remembers I'm with CSI. The police in Boston where she lives never found who killed her husband. They say it was a random act of violence. They took his wallet. Wasn't in the system."

"It happens sometimes, Sara," Catherine said. "Sometimes we lose."

"Mm," Sara said, wrapping her arms tighter around her. "But… I don't want to lose Greg and Nick."

Catherine wanted to reach out and pull her friend into a comforting, maternal embrace, like she might have done with Lindsey, but something stopped her. Sara seemed to be doing a good job of hugging herself, and there was always that strange awkwardness between the two, an unspoken but almost sibling like rivalry of being the only two women on the night shift. They each felt they had to compete against each other to prove themselves, when they should be helping each other. In some strange way, though, Catherine knew that if she ever needed her, Sara would be there. And there were times when she wanted to strangle the stubborn girl, but she would kill for her any day.

"Hush," Catherine cooed, reaching out and stroking Sara's hair tenderly. The brunette looked up at her with blank eyes and a pale face as her fingers tightened around her forearms. "However things turn out," she said, "you won't ever be alone."

Almost against her will, Sara smiled.


	8. Bloody Martyrs

_**Author's Note:**_ You all can relax now, no cliffhanger here. I apologize for the highly offensive word used in this chapter, but it was used for emphasis... I also apologize for the abundance of bad language in here. I know the Isabella/Greg kiss a few chapters ago was unpopular, no fears-- as stated earlier, it's simply a device for more angst and she still has a role to play. And Nick-angst folks out there, hang in there, all in good time.

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_"We Americans are freedom-loving people and nothing says freedom like getting away with it. We went from Billy the Kid to Richard Nixon, Enron, Exxon, O.J. Simpson... We used to dream about heroes, but now it's just how to beat the system... I wonder how the world sees us. Rich beyond compare, powerful without equal, a spoiled, drunk, 15-year-old waving a gun in their face."_

**Guy Forsyth, "_Long, Long Time_" from the album "Love Songs: For and Against"**

* * *

He looked down at the body as the blood spilled out of it like crimson molasses. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered that they had actually used molasses as blood in old movies. Since it had all been in black and white back then, they didn't even need to add coloring. 

He kneeled down and stroked the corpse's hair, shaking his head in disapproval. Another soldier down, and not the last by far, he was sure. The body had fallen on top of him, and for one frightening moment he had thought it was death's cold black cloak come to swallow him whole. And then he'd realized that the blood that was staining his shirt wasn't his own, and the heavy weight resting on his chest wasn't death, but another body, another man, another brother-in-arms. But it wasn't him, and that's what petrified him.

He didn't know why the poor bastard had done it. If Ali had chosen him, then Greg had supposed it had been his time to die. But this friend, this corpse, he had begged to differ. He had pushed Greg out of the way, out of some loyalty that in the chaos of war Greg had thought meant _nothing_ anymore. He had thought that it was every man for himself. But he didn't realize that in the heat of battle was when someone needed loyalty the most. There was a reason the military was so tight-nit. Because it wasn't every man for himself. It was leave no man behind. And that's how you survived. Not by detachment, but the opposite.

Greg allowed a single tear to streak down his face as he stared at the body of his friend, his brother, who had given his life in that split-second decision in order to spare Greg his. And what point had it served? Greg was sure he would simply die in the next few hours anyways. His friend had died for nothing, thinking he was making a difference, when really none of them made any difference at all.

He couldn't help it. His stomach spasmed and he let out a breathless sob, gasping for air as though he was breaking the surface of some vast ocean that was almost his watery grave. One sob soon became two, which quickly multiplied into three and four and he soon found his body wracked with anguished fear as he trembled there, kneeling over the body of this hero he had barely known.

He felt a kind hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard, as though afraid that if they broke contact both of them would immediately die, and for all Greg knew they would. Time had become a guillotine and wishing it was all over had new meaning to him. Over. What was over? Did he wish his life was over, so this horrible fear of not knowing when he would die would be done with? Or did he wish that the whole ordeal was over, wish that someone else would die instead, every hour on the hour, and he would watch, and he would know, with every death, that he should have died hours before any of them.

He should have died five minutes ago.

The hand on his shoulder turned into an arm around his back, and the arm around his back pulled him into a firm embrace. Greg felt like a child all over again, except now he knew how to cuss, and cuss he did into the shirt of his comrade.

"_Mother fucking shit bitch!_" he was saying desperately, and he let out a slew of every obscenity that came to his head, even a few in Norwegian when he ran out of those he knew in English, hoping that saying as many as possible would make him feel that much better. It helped minutely, but in his desperate condition, any little bit of comfort was like a drop of water in a desert. So he did it some more, clenching his hands into fists as his knuckles turned white, wishing he could beat up that stupid kid for running in and taking his place.

"You're OK," Nick said to him, his voice surprisingly calm when minutes ago he had sounded hysterical.

"He's dead, Nick…" Greg said, still refusing to believe it. "The stupid son-of-a-bitch felt he _owed_ me and for _what_? I said three words to his kid brother before he got _shot_? What the _fuck_, Nick?!" He pushed Nick away from him and stared at him with wild, angry eyes. "I didn't do _shit_ for him and he gets _killed_ for _me_ and why? Why, Nick? I wouldn't have done anything. If it had been him, if that asshole had decided to shoot _him_, I would have just stood there and _watched_, like I've been watching everyone else die, like I watched his own _brother_ die! I wouldn't have jumped in to save the day like he did, I wouldn't have pushed him out of the way, so why the _hell_ did he? Why, Nick? It doesn't make any sense…"

The tears were falling freely down his face as he shook his head at Nick in bafflement, at an absolute loss for words. He couldn't understand it, and he probably never would.

Cool as a cat, Nick said the only thing that kept playing over and over again in his mind at the stunned relief he felt at seeing Greg alive, albeit upset and swearing. "Nothing makes sense anymore, Greg, not here, not now. Whatever the reason he did it, you're still alive. And that's something we can be grateful for."

"I'm still alive…" Greg tasted the phrase and made a face as though it was sour on his tongue. "But I shouldn't be, Nick. He was aiming for _me_."

But Nick didn't think it mattered to Ali one way or the other who received the bullet. After Jared had fallen and knocked Greg off his feet, Ali had simply lowered his gun and shrugged, as though missing was an acceptable accident. He had again turned to his minions and was talking to them in hushed tones. He hadn't cared that he had missed Greg, only that he had shot someone, and that was all he'd been aiming for.

"He was just a kid, Nick…" Greg was saying quietly as he shook his head.

Nick took a deep breath and held it a moment. He was watching Greg crack like an egg before his eyes and nothing he could say could keep him together. The bullet shot straight through him after all and pierced his heart, but he was still talking, breathing, walking, floating in this limbo like a ghost who missed his chance to pass on. He held on tight to Greg's arm, as though afraid his soul would slip away if he didn't grasp it tight enough.

"You listen to me, Greg," he said sternly. "You survived, and you should _not_ feel guilty for acting on the most basic of human instincts. He died, like Jessica died, like Neil died, and like the mother of that child died, and like most of us in this room will probably die, but you _didn't_, OK, not yet."

"But I will," Greg said. "He died _for nothing_."

"As much as you don't want to hear it, Greg, _most_ people die for nothing. You're a CSI. You've seen meaningless death on a daily basis."

"But not first hand, Nick," Greg said, his mouth partially open. "I've never seen a man shot right in front of me, someone who seconds ago had a beating heart, and was talking to me and… And I don't like it, Nick. I don't like it at all."

Nick favored him with a tight-lipped smile as he nodded and gathered him into a brotherly embrace, patting him on the back as Greg returned it, looking out the window over Nick's shoulder. "We'll take care of each other, Greg," Nick promised. "For as long as we can, we'll take care of each other. OK?"

Greg bit his lip to keep the tears back from his eyes as Nick's words reverberated in his ear. He didn't want to cry again, not in front of Nick. He'd already seen Greg at his weakest. He had to be strong, even if he wasn't feeling it. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, OK. Uh… Nick?"

"What?" Nick asked, pulling back from the embrace so he could study his friend's expression. Greg's voice was unsteady, his intentions unclear.

"I, uh…" Greg swallowed. "I want to be first."

Nick didn't understand. "First?"

Greg looked away from Nick's confused expression, staring at the blood pooling under Jared's cold dead body. "If it comes down to it," he said flatly. "If it comes down to you or me, it's going to be me." He looked up at Nick again to make sure his message was clear. "You understand?"

Nick's grip on Greg's arm lessened until he withdrew his hand altogether, his jaw set in a tense expression. "What?"

"I mean, it's not me being heroic or anything," Greg said quickly. "Actually, it's kind of the opposite. I can't watch you die, Nick. I tried that once before. You wanna know exactly how many minutes I spent watching that live web cam of you underground? Zero. I couldn't stand it for more than thirty seconds, and I just… No. I'm a coward, and I can't watch you die, and if I'm going to die anyways, I'd rather just… get it over with. Stop this crazy waiting, this not _knowing_, just get it over with. I should have died five minutes ago. But I didn't. So now, I just want to make sure you get that extra hour that Jared gave me. So you can't let me see you die, Nick. OK?"

Nick buried his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Greg was always the spark of energy on the team, whether they wanted it or not. He always had something witty to say, some antic to try, and even when he moved to the field and it hardened him some, he was still upbeat and excited. He was the youngest, and Nick had always found himself going out of his way to make sure he did OK. When Nick had heard Greg had been beaten to the brink of fatality, it had lit a cold fire in his stomach and he felt righteous indignation ignite his blood like gunpowder. He had loathed Greg's attackers, and he always wished he could have done more than just hit one of them once. Nick had come from a big family, and had always been taught that it was family that came first in any situation. It was a lesson he'd taken with him even after he'd moved away from Texas. He considered the lab his second family, and felt responsible for Greg's wellbeing like a brother worried about his youngest sibling. Greg's words affected him, in more ways than Nick could count, but mostly because of its hopeless tone.

"Greg…" he said, searching for the right words. "You told me a few hours ago that I couldn't quit on you yet. You told me everything would be OK, and that we'd get out of here alive. Do you remember that?"

"That was before he started shooting everyone," Greg replied, as though it were obvious. "Look around you, Nick! We're surrounded by death."

"Now you know how I feel."

Nick and Greg froze at the sound of the chillingly familiar voice and looked up to see Mask standing nearby, who had apparently been listening to their conversation. He looked at them with cold brown eyes. He glanced over his shoulder at Kareem and Amira, who were both watching him intently. It occurred to Nick that he had been spending a lot of time with the couple, almost more time than he'd spent with Ali and his men.

Greg looked at the floor timidly, in a show of submission, hoping Mask would walk away and leave them alone. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Mask looked surprised. "What are you apologizing for?" he asked. "For living? For dodging a bullet? You are a lucky man, Greg Sanders. You should never apologize for luck. You should thank God for it every day, because it's what's kept you alive this long. I used to be lucky, too." He looked at Nick. "I am… Sorry. For your involvement in this. I know that you were trying to help. But we do things our way, we get justice our way. We don't listen to your government and your laws. It has betrayed us too many times in the past. It has stood by and done nothing as our brothers and sisters were killed by Jews. We do not trust it, you see. We do not trust you."

"Well then the feeling's mutual," Nick replied in even tones.

Mask stood there a moment and held Nick's gaze before scoffing and turning around as he walked away.

"I wish I was strong like you," Greg whispered, catching Nick's focus. He watched the younger CSI for a long time, Greg's head still bent as he stared at the floor.

"You're stronger than you think, Greg," he said. "Trust me on that." Greg said nothing in reply and Nick sighed. "You won't see me die, Greg. Because I don't plan on dying. Not today."

His friend looked up at him at these words and smiled, a vision of his old self if only for a moment.

"Terrorists and faggots, every last one of them."

These hate-filled words slithered into Nick's ear like a cockroach intent on laying eggs. He turned to see the stubborn balding man that had been one of the original eleven hostages. He was in the corner with his arms folded, muttering to himself.

Nick hadn't been the only one to hear it. Mask had heard it too. He turned to the man and cocked his gun. "What did you say?" His voice was cold, and he wasn't ready to tolerate any bullshit.

The man was daring. "I said you're all terrorists and faggots," he replied. "I know you _Muslims_. You don't like progress. You're stuck in your kooky religion worshipping some moon god. You know you're all going to go to hell, don't you? You're jealous of America because we've moved forward. We have things like the constitution to protect our people. You treat your women like crap. We're a free country and you hate our freedom. The world would do well to be rid of all of you psychos."

Mask was breathing heavily as he stared at the man, his hand tightening around his gun.

"Take that back," Greg said, surprising all of them.

Nick looked over to his friend who was staring at the balding man with ferocious intensity, his eyes burning.

"Excuse me?" The man laughed, as if Greg had no right to be speaking to him at all.

"Take that _back_!" Greg repeated more angrily.

"You can't take back the truth, little man," the man said bitterly. "These faggots want to rule the world and they want to destroy America to do it. Spread they're crazy belief of their moon god and their backwards ways. They want to plunge the world back into the stone age. We need to stop him. That's why we invaded Iraq. That's why we supported Israel. Our government recognizes the need to get rid of them."

"You don't know shit," Greg spat out.

"And what do you know, huh, kid?" the man returned. "What are you, a Jew?" He scoffed. "Figures, only a Jew would be so stubborn. Money-grubbing idiots. I thought you'd hate these guys too."

"I'm not Jewish," Greg said, sounding appalled at this man's audacity.

"You sure as hell ain't a good Christian," the man said. "Or at least you can't call yourself one."

"Fuck you!" Greg snapped. "You think being Christian means condemning every other religion in the world?! It doesn't matter what the hell I am! It doesn't matter what the hell anyone is! I don't even care what _you_ believe in because it doesn't _matter_. People are people, and you just insulted an entire race of them without knowing _anything_ about them _at all_! What the hell are you doing in a place like this anyway, if you hate people so much?"

"I was forced to be here," the man returned, "as part of a settlement in a lawsuit. Some crazy brown bitch took me to court for being what she called, '_racist_.' What is a racist anyway? Isn't it in that evolution theory you devil-worshippers are so fond of that dictates survival of the fittest? It's not my fault that America happens to be the best, and the weaker worms can't accept defeat."

Greg was shaking his head, a look of disgust scuttling across his features like a cockroach as he looked at man. "You know, I didn't think people like you actually existed. People who have been sheltered their whole life and shaped by extremist propaganda and a very _warped_ idea of religion… You're no better than the fundamentalist terrorists. You know that, right? You're just as crazy as they are. But at least they know they're crazy. At least they're willing to die for something. But you, you're just a coward."

"Are you saying I'm _worse_ than a _terrorist_, you little maggot?" the man exclaimed. "I don't kill people for sport! I'm a red-blooded American patriot, OK, I support my country."

But Greg shook his head fervently. "No, man. No, no, no. See, _I_ support my country. I _work_ for my country. I _know_ about my country, moreover, I know about _other_ countries, and I don't just sit back and believe everything I hear. But you, you just sit there in your Lazyboy recliner and think that you're the only one in the world who's right, and that people everywhere else are either unlucky or undeserving souls that were born outside of the United States, the Promised Land, and meanwhile the _real_ Promised Land, the one that's talked about in that Bible you love to distort so much, is being bombed and attacked and people are _dying_. Real _people_. Not Jews, not Muslims, not Christians—it's all the same. They're all _people_. But do you give a shit? No, because you have your pick-up truck and your TV dinner and your shot gun and you have those things because you're a red-blooded American and therefore they're your _birthright _and you deserve them. You make me sick."

"Fucking tree-hugging liberal…" the man muttered.

"How do you know I'm not conservative?" Greg returned.

"Well _are_ you?" the man asked, sounding condescending.

"Political beliefs are as irrelevant as religious ones," Greg said evenly. "You can't condemn a person for what he believes in."

"Even if he's keen on killing you for that belief?"

Greg was actually struck dumb by this comment. He fought to retort when the gun blast beat him to it. He watched the man's eyes glaze over as his body slumped over to the floor, the blood pouring from the bullet wound in his forehead. Greg looked up at Mask, who was still aiming the gun at the man, smoke rising from the barrel.

They all turned when Ali started shouting at him and jogged over to them. Mask spoke quietly and quickly in Arabic to Ali, probably explaining what had just happened. He gestured at Greg a lot, and for a moment Ali stared at him like he was telling him Greg had just sprouted wings and flown. He looked from the dead body of the balding man to Greg to Mask again before barking an order and walking away.

Mask stiffened and looked at Greg out of the corner of his eye.

"What did he tell you to do?" Nick asked carefully.

He hadn't actually expected Mask to answer him, so when he did he wasn't sure if it was the truth or not. "He told me to watch both of you very carefully," Mask said, before turning on his heal and striding away.

Ali's voice echoed over the speakers in the auditorium. "Thanks to the outburst you just witness, we are short a hostage. But don't you fret, ladies and gentlemen. I came prepared." He paused as he turned to Nick, a sinister smirk contorting his face. "I told you a twenty-fifth hostage would come in handy."

There were too many emotions swirling in Nick to count. Vehement outrage, horror, nausea and astonishment being only a few, but he felt the darkness most of all as it snuck up on him, ready to pounce.

Greg was shaking his head. "Is it wrong…" he began slowly, "that I'm actually _glad_ they killed him?"

Nick tried his best to reassure his friend, who was rapidly losing his conscience in this illogical limbo, and fight the darkness in his own head at the same time. "No, Greg," he said. "Where we are now… Right and wrong flew out the window hours ago."


	9. Losing Count

_**Author's Note:**_ I do these so often, I always feel like the chapter is incomplete without an introduction from me. BUT I'm so thrilled that everyone took my advice in the first chapter and isn't getting offended on me, it takes a lot of care to try to present something impartially and even more consideration when reading it. Because even if you begin researching an issue in an unbiased manner, sometimes you find a bias creeps up on you and into your writing/reading. It's why news pieces are never _completely _free of bias regardless how journalists try, and I acknowledge that maybe my biases are sneaking into my work, but I still encourage you to look past that at the facts of the matter. Anyways, there's an absense of Nick and Greg in here, but there's plenty of Warrick, Catherine, Sara and Grissom. To be honest, the scene with Warrick/"Nick"/Catherine is actually one of my favorites in this story. Don't ask why, because I don't know, and you'd think it'd be some Greg/Nick angst scene that was my favorite, but no, it's this one. Thanks for reading, I'm glad to see y'all are enjoying it. You folks are awesome.

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_"Today I have come bearing an olive branch and a freedom fighter's gun. Do not let the olive branch fall from my hand."_

**Yasser Arafat, Chairman of the Palestine Liberation Organization (1969–2004) and President of the Palestinian National Authority (1993–2004). In 1994 Arafat received the Nobel Peace Prize together with Yitzhak Rabin and Shimon Peres, for the negotiation of the 1993 Oslo Peace Accord.  
**

* * *

It was 2:45 and the bartender slid his sixth tequila shot in an hour across the bar. 

"You sure you don't want to slow down there, partner?" the bartender asked.

He downed the shot and slammed the glass back on the bar, staring at the ceiling as he swayed on the bar stool. But he nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm just gonna… sit here for a while."

The tender shrugged and nodded. "Alright," he said. "Suit yourself. But we close in fifteen minutes."

The bartender walked away and someone slid into the barstool next to him.

"Barkeep!" this new person called. "Scotch on the rocks." The bartender didn't seem to hear him. The man laughed. "Would you look at that?" he said. "Doesn't even know I'm here."

He grunted and the newcomer fixed him with a curious stare, a defiant spark to his deep brown eyes. "You don't know I'm here either, do you Warrick?" This elicited no reply from the tired, drunk man. "Say, would you mind maybe…?"

"You're not a whiskey man, Nick," Warrick whispered, staring at his empty shot glass.

"You think that bartender knows that?" Nick asked.

Warrick gestured at the barkeep. "Max! Scotch on the rocks," he called.

Nick smirked. "Thanks, man."

Warrick let out a long, low sigh. "So what, am I going crazy now?"

"Nah, man," Nick said. "Nah, you're just drunk. Drunk and desperate."

"And what about you, eh?" Warrick asked, finally facing his delusion. "How are you doing right now?"

Nick shrugged. "Can't complain, I guess," he said. "But, I mean, I'm here, aren't I? So that can't be good news for the real me, could it? I wouldn't be here if you weren't worried about me."

Warrick laughed sadly. "I find I'm always worried about you, Nick. One way or the other."

"I can't help you there," said his delusion as he reached into the bowl of complimentary peanuts. "How are you doing, man? I mean really, how are you? And don't bullshit me, Warrick, because I _am_ you. I'll know if you're lying."

"I see brutal acts of violence on a daily basis, Nick…" Warrick muttered. "I never tried to understand it before. I always just chalked it up to human nature. Primal and inexplicable instincts, that fight or flight mechanism which has kept our species alive for so long. Human kind is capable of causing great pain and suffering. But we're also capable of so much more than that. And I see that every day too. In the eyes of the grieving family members. In the shocked disbelief of a woman whose husband killed himself. In the single mother who's holding two jobs just to give her kid a chance in this messed up land we call the USA."

He looked up at Nick, who was eying him intently as he chewed on the bar peanuts. Warrick couldn't help but crack a tiny smile as he shook his head. "Why is it that we saved you once and we can't seem to be able to do it again? I didn't pull you out of that grave just to push you into another, you know. Why the hell do you have to get your ass in these fucked up situations, Nick? I can't always be there to rescue you."

"I can take care of myself," Nick said with his mouth full. He grabbed the newly brought glass of whiskey and downed it in one gulp. He grinned at Warrick, a peanut shell stuck between his teeth.

"Please," Warrick scoffed. "You wouldn't last two minutes without me watching your back."

"I think," Nick posed, philosophically, "and this is just the opinion of a lowly hallucination, _but_… I think it's you who can't last two minutes without me, my friend. And that's why I'm here. That's why you're sitting in the bar filling up your gut with liquor and complimentary peanuts, talking to ghosts. You don't want to go into that crime lab because you're afraid if you fail, my blood will be on your hands, and you can't deal with that. Once was enough. But not again."

"If we had lost you that one time, Nick, I swear—"

"I know," Nick interrupted, nodding. "All the coulda-woulda-shouldas. Pesky little things, aren't they? Running laps inside your skull, playing tag with your imaginative scenarios of how things should have turned out… I know. I get them too."

"You get them?" Warrick asked. "Or Nick does?"

"Both of us, I'm sure," Nick replied. "Right now, for instance. What do you think I'm thinking right now?"

"I don't know, Nick…" Warrick murmured, sounding exhausted as he shook his head.

He felt a hand over his. It was icy and the texture of his grasp seemed to shift over his skin, like cold water or gas. It took Warrick a moment to remember that his friend wasn't actually touching him, in fact his friend wasn't even _there_. He pulled his hand away and looked up at his hallucination, whose gaze was startlingly dark for a figment of one's imagination.

"You do," he said. "Come on, Warrick. You know me better than anyone. Try. Think. What do you think is going through my mind right now?"

Warrick looked away again. Staring at Nick, looking so vibrant and alive, even if it was only his imagination, was too much for him to stand. He took a deep breath and bit his lip, thinking. "My guess is… you're scared. Probably worried more about Greg than yourself, but that's just your style. And you don't want him to know you're scared. Because that's your style too. You have to be Big Brother Nick. Always there for everybody else, but never let anyone be there for you. You'll be… watching the clock. Watching it like I am. Wondering if each new minute will be one minute closer to your own death. Wondering if Greg will have to watch you die, afraid you'll look weak to him. Or worse, wondering if you will have to watch Greg die, afraid to fail one of your best friends." He looked up at his hallucination and saw that he wasn't speaking, waiting for Warrick to continue.

Warrick shrugged noncommittally in response to his silent question. "You, uh… You're probably thinking about how you could have avoided this. Maybe if you'd waited for Brass instead of going on ahead. But you know that it would have still happened, with or without you and Greg. And even if you'd gotten there five minutes after the fact, you know you would have been standing outside that building wondering what would have happened if you had been caught inside, and maybe you could have helped. In fact, that's probably on Brass's mind too come to think of it."

"You can be pretty insightful when you wanna be, you know that 'Rick?" Nick asked with one of his classic Texan grins.

"I miss you," Warrick admitted.

Nick took a deep breath than shook his head as he exhaled. "How can you miss what you haven't yet lost? Are you giving up on me, man?"

Warrick opened his mouth to reply when he was interrupted.

"So what number are you on?"

He gave a start at the voice and spun around on his stool, nearly falling off as he held onto the bar counter to keep his balance. He looked up to see a familiar feminine figure, her silhouette hazy in the dim bar lights but her blue eyes as fierce as he'd ever seen them. A soft red glow from the low hanging lamps highlighted her strawberry blonde hair, giving her an unearthly halo in the darkness that surrounded the both of them. He thought, _Maybe this is a crimson angel, here to save me. Another hallucination, another hesitation, here to distract me from all the things I ought to be doing, all the fears I should be facing, and all the lies I should stop living. _

"What?" He forgot what he was saying, only that she had asked him a question and her striking gaze had already made him forget it. He glanced at the vacant chair next to him and noticed sadly that Nick had evaporated back into the fathoms of his alcohol infested mind.

He looked back at his angel, and when she smiled, the apples of her cheeks were tinged with the slightest shade of pink, or it could have been a trick of the red lights. She slid into the stool the phantom Nick had previously occupied and reached for the complimentary peanuts. She looked at the empty whiskey glass, then up at Warrick, who hadn't remembered drinking it. He recognized her then, her creamy complexion illuminated by a flickering candle nearby, casting dancing shadows on the bags under her eyes. Not an angel at all, but beautiful nonetheless, the slender form of Catherine Willows sat beside him. But maybe she could still save him after all.

"How long have you been here?"

"Days," Warrick replied, somewhat uncertainly. "Maybe weeks."

"And how many drinks ago did you decide to forget about time?"

"About the same number as when I decided to stop counting," he replied, his head awhirl with colors and that tingling feeling one gets when one's foot falls asleep. Only the feeling seemed to be encompassing his skull as his brain swished around inside of it.

He felt her hand before he even saw her reach out to him, but whichever had come first, her delicate touch rested lightly on the side of his neck, her nails gingerly gliding over the hairs on the back of his neck. He noted the contrast between Catherine's touch and Nick's. She was warm and soft, Nick's cool and slithery. It was her touch that finally made him understand that this Catherine wasn't a delusion. She was real, and she was there. "Let's get you home, sweetie."

Her voice echoed inside his head, as though it came from far away. Why had Nick, who was so far from him, been crystal clear and as sharp as a knife, and Catherine, who was so very near, was deathly vague. "Can't go home," Warrick said, shaking his head. "Nick is waiting for me."

"Does Tina know you're off work?" Catherine asked, trying to catch Warrick's eye.

He shook his head. "Haven't called her since Nick and Greg. What are you doing here? You should be… The case. Working it. The case, I mean. Aren't you working the case?"

"Sara and I processed all the evidence double time," Catherine said, her voice a muted whisper that Warrick could barely make out. "We have absolutely zero suspects to compare it to. Can you imagine? Anyone who is remotely a suspect is inside that building already. We know there were four assailants. Sara is going to try and talk to them again, to see if what we have is any sort of bargaining chip. If not… Then we'll see."

"What will we see?" To Warrick, it seemed like a perfectly sound question, but Catherine cocked an eyebrow and narrowed her eye at him.

"What happens," she answered him. "Warrick, how many drinks have you had?"

"Seven," the bartender chirped, whisking away the empty whiskey glass. "In the past hour. He's been muttering to himself, too. It was too incoherent to catch what he was saying, though."

Catherine's eyebrows came to a point and her brow wrinkled in disapproval. "Oh, Warrick."

"'Oh Warrick' what?" Warrick said, only now detecting the slur in his own voice. "I was just… I mean…" He had forgotten what he was trying to explain to her. "You wouldn't understand anyway."

She looked up at the barkeep. "Were you the one who called me?"

He nodded at her. "Some punk thought it'd be funny to steal his cell phone. He didn't even move or seem to notice. I got worried when he kept on muttering, so I called the first person on the list." He handed the phone to Catherine.

"Thanks," she said.

Vaguely, Warrick remembered some kid bumping into him about half an hour ago or a year ago, he wasn't so sure, but his phone being stolen made no difference to him. Nick and Greg could lose their lives. That's worse than losing your phone.

"You gonna pick up his tab too?"

"Of course, here…"

Something about that didn't feel right. Warrick felt he should protest, but his mouth refused to form the words, and instead they came out in a garbled mesh of nonsense.

Catherine rose to her feet and tugged at Warrick's hand. He looked down at her milky white fingers on top of his hand, far darker than hers, and much bigger. He could swallow her whole and yet her light consumed him. He unsteadily managed to get up on his own feet and wavered slightly. Catherine caught his arm and slung it over her shoulder as she led him to the door. He knew he was moving, but he didn't know where, and he couldn't help thinking that he was leaving something behind.

He looked uncertainly over his shoulder and saw Nick waving at him from the bar, tossing on of the complimentary peanuts into his mouth before Catherine opened the door and led Warrick out into the black.

* * *

"You _called_ him!" Sara's mouth was agape as she stared at Grissom in disbelief. "You _called_ him and I wasn't _here_ and you— _what_?!" 

"Keep her under control, Mr. Grissom," Ripley barked authoritatively.

Sara glanced at him, but then turned her attentions back on Grissom. "What did he say? Is he OK? Is Greg OK? Can we call him again? Oh God… There've been two gunshots since then, right? What if…"

"Sara, you're here for precisely that reason," Grissom told her calmly. "You have results. Maybe we can negotiate something. Look, we can't call Nick's phone directly again, at least not now. We need to make contact with the people inside and tell them what we know."

"But what if it isn't enough?" Sara voiced the question that was weighing heavily on everyone's minds. "What if it isn't enough for them to go on?"

Grissom clung tight to his faithful inscrutability. "We try what we can now, and come up with a new solution later if it's not enough, OK honey? Come on, you can do this. Work the case."

"Work the case…" Sara repeated, taking a deep breath for courage as she slid into the chair.

Next to her, Steve squeezed her arm. "You're doing great, princess," he told her. "He likes you, I can tell. They wouldn't have asked for you if they didn't."

Sara nodded as she put on the headset. "Just dial, would you?"

Steve's fingers flew as he obliged and the ringing in Sara's head began anew. After six or seven rings, she didn't think they were going to answer, and looked at Grissom worriedly.

Finally, she heard the familiar formal greeting. "Salam alekum."

"Alekum salam," Sara responded, steeling up her courage. She noted the irony of the English translation of the words, but decided to dwell on it later. "I was wondering if… we could negotiate new terms now. I, uh… My lab has found evidence concerning Farah Ibrahim's death. We were thinking we could exchange this information for hostages."

The man on the other end of the line chuckled darkly. "It depends on the validity of your information, habibti."

Sara narrowed her eyes, the irony of their Arabic pleasantries too much for her to stand at that moment. "Can we cut the sweet talk, please? Look, I want two things right now."

"Only two?"

Sara gritted her teeth to keep from snapping back at the man. "Yes. First and foremost, I want to be sure that the people in there are safe. And secondly, I want to find out who killed Farah Ibrahim."

"Oh?" the man sounded mildly amused.

"I do," she assured him, "because what happened to her pisses me off almost as much as it pisses you off. So trust me when I tell you I will not bullshit you on my evidence. It's just not my style. I know you don't know me, and I don't know you, but you asked for me, which meant that there must be _something_ about me that you like. So listen to me a moment. If you keep killing people every hour like you do, you'll just end up with a room full of corpses and no murderer. Does that sound like justice to you? The only way you can catch this guy is to work with us."

The line was silent for a very long time and Steve was looking very nervous as he fiddled with the volume, trying to pick up ambient noise. Sara heard heavy breathing on the other end of the phone and it was eerily disturbing.

Finally, he spoke. "You speak to me about justice," he said slowly. "And I tell you that there is no such thing. At least not in the tight little way your country defines it. These things, things like… warrants and lawyers and _due process_… These provide shelter for the fiends. They hide behind them like monsters under a bed. The only true justice is equal exchange. Forty-four hundred of my people are dead, Miss Sidle, _forty-four hundred_. And seven times as many have been injured, and countless more families have been devastated. You don't seem to understand. America is _standing by doing nothing_. Indeed, they are _helping_ to commit these atrocities by selling guns and tanks to the Israeli demons who are pushing us out of our homes. Palestine is _our land_, it has always been _our land_. American propaganda portrays us as evil terrorists without any will other than to cause harm. It is not so. We are merely a people with nothing left to lose, and no one will listen to anything other than violence and loss. We are a people who wish to make others not only sympathize with our plight, but _empathize_, and the only way for this to be made possible is to ensure that they know loss like we do. This isn't just about Farah Ibrahim, Miss Sidle. This is about all of her brothers and sisters who were murdered, in equally or more brutal ways, and their murderers continue to walk the streets disguised in uniforms and hidden in tanks. I think twenty-five people, Miss Sidle, in exchange for _forty-four hundred_ is more than fair."

Sara's lip quivered. "So even if the murderer confesses…" she whispered. "You're going to kill them all anyway."

"I tried to tell you police in the first place. There's nothing you can do."

"Then why did you involve _me_?" Sara demanded.

There was shouting in Arabic on the other end of the line. They argued for a few minutes in Arabic and Sara let them, glancing at Steve to make sure he was getting it. Finally, he returned to Sara and laughed casually. "Miss Sidle, I have to go," he said. "There are some issues I need to deal with."

"No!" Sara said quickly. "No, wait, you said if the murderer confesses—"

"Which you've already pointed out is highly unlikely," the man interrupted.

"There is no reasoning with you, is there?" Sara asked, her voice breathless as she was running out of options.

The man sighed, sounding exasperated himself. "Mish mumkin, habibti. Mish mumkin."

Sara's eyes swelled with tears as she quivered on the spot, trying not to cry. _Not possible, my dear. Not possible._ "You have to give me… _something_, here," Sara begged, trying and failing to keep the desperation from her voice. "You can't just say 'Not possible' and think I'm going to _drop_, this—those are my _friends_ you have in there you sick bastard—"

"And who do you think Farah Ibrahim was to_ me,_ an acquaintance I met on the street?" the man roared furiously. "Do not try to lecture me on loss, Miss Sidle. I have lost so much that I no longer feel _anything_. I grew up _surrounded_ by death and destruction. My brother was killed by an Israeli tank trying to retrieve the carcass his seven-year-old son who was shot on his way to school."

Whether he'd realized it or not, the man on the other end of the line had just given Sara a vital piece of information and her heart skipped a beat as her eyes darted over to Brass standing in the corner, who had also stiffened at the man's words. Their eyes met, and he nodded, both thinking the exact same thing. Ripley was watching them both intently but Sara's mind was swiftly pulled back to her phone conversation by Steve's light touch.

Sara heard more shouting in Arabic she couldn't decipher in the background. "Uh…" she said, searching for words. She had to tread carefully. "I'm sorry about your… brother… But listen—"

"No, Miss Sidle, I am through with _listening_, in fact, I am through with talking altogether. Our negotiations are done. Do not call this number again. If this phone rings, I will kill someone, and you better be damned sure that I will go out of my way to make certain it's one of your precious friends."

"There were four attackers," Sara spat out desperately. "Not just one. One of them was female."

The man on the other end of the line seemed to stop everything. "_What?!_" He spat out the word angrily, like he had bitten into something particularly bitter and needed it out of his mouth as fast as possible.

"If you're so certain the killers are in that building, then we're going to need evidence to compare to them," Sara said. "DNA. Hair, saliva—"

"Blood?"

Sara hesitated. "Blood…" she said.

"Fantastic," the man said. "Then I will kill them all and you can have all the blood you want."

"I thought you knew exactly who the killer was," Sara said. "I thought you were so sure."

"I _am_ sure," the man growled. "And your evidence is wrong. But you can compare the blood work to the corpses I send out in body bags. Masalama, Miss Sidle."

The quiet click was like the echo of an explosion rattling around inside Sara's skull. Her whole body was quaking as the tears that had swelled in her eyes spilled over down her cheeks. Her breaths became a staccato symphony of anxiety. Had she single-handedly signed Nick and Greg's death warrant? She had given up their only bargaining chip and he hadn't even cared.

She closed her eyes, desperately wishing she was somewhere else, a beach, maybe, a nice, warm beach in California, or better yet some deserted island lost in the Pacific. Her own tears blazed a trail of ice cold down her burning cheeks as she tried to imagine the sun, beating down on her, enveloping her in a warm blanket of light and UV rays. She would dive into the ocean and swim out as far as she could until she nearly drowned. She would hide in the shade of a date palm, or crawl under a rock like an insect. She needed to escape. She wished that she had never spoken to them. She had only made things worse.

When she opened her eyes again, she realized that someone had graciously granted her unvoiced wish. She was, indeed, somewhere else entirely. And it was warm, and it was safe, and it was breathing.

She realized that she was sobbing and she hadn't even noticed before. She wasn't sitting in the chair, she was standing, but her knees began to buckle. Someone caught her. Someone was keeping her on her feet. Someone was holding her as the stress of rushing the evidence and hoping for something to use and of trying not to say the wrong thing and praying to a God she didn't believe in to watch over Nick and Greg all accumulated to a breaking point and she fell to pieces.

"Get her out of here!" Ripley's voice filtered through her ears as though coming from very far away. "She was useless."

The grip of whoever was holding her tightened protectively. She felt him inhale to speak, but he was cut off.

"Gil." Brass was sharp and warning.

Sara felt him sigh and his hand rose to the back of her head. His voice vibrated in her chest; she felt it more than heard it. "I'll talk to you later, Agent Ripley."

By now, Sara had calmed down enough to have pieced together what was going on. She was still breathing heavily, but she had stopped crying, and she pulled away from Grissom and wiped angrily at her eyes. She looked over her shoulder at Ripley who was leaning over Steve as he tried to work. She licked her chapped lips and sniffed before turning on her heal and marching out of the van, followed swiftly by Grissom, and then Brass.

"Sara!"

She refused to listen; she had to get as far away from that van as possible. She braced herself to hear another gunshot whipping through the air. It was past 3:00AM, she was sure, they should have shot someone by now, and she didn't want to think of the life that she had lost. She felt sick and exhausted and she barely past the crime scene tape before she stumbled and fell to her hands and knees, the gravel scraping gray gashes into her skin. She stood there a moment, on all fours as her chest rose up and down. She was nauseous and yet her stomach dry heaved. When was the last time she had eaten? She couldn't remember. All she knew was she felt sick, poisoned by the hatred of the men who had stolen her friends from her, and no matter how she cried she couldn't purge herself of that sin. 


	10. Stolen Kisses

_**Author's Note:**_ Now I'm SORRY for those of you who don't like the whole Isabella side-plot, but I needed to wrap up that hanging story. Um... Her quote about humans being the reason the universe was made, I didn't write that, it's from Jose Rivera's "Marisol" said by, of course, Marisol. So many lines in that play struck me as beautiful, but that seemed particularly apropos to the situation. I will be including a list of all my inspirations for this piece (Marisol of course being included on that list) and also a list of extra material from both sides of the conflict to get a more well rounded idea. It's good to read opinionated accounts if you read accounts written by both poles (and good books for each exist out there). In fact, you may end up with a more balanced opinion reading two books representing oposing sides than reading one claiming to be "unbiased" (like this story ;o)). And I know I've stated this fifty times, but I totally respect any and all opinions, political beliefs, and religions. You are all entitled to your opinion. Thanks for reviewing, especially those of you who are skeptical about the politics in this. You're all swell.

**Advice:** Always, always, _always_ be asking questions about _everything._ Curiosity leads to learning, which leads to understanding. Even this story isn't the WHOLE story. Devour information like chocolate and try to see the world from a different angle to come to an understanding with people with views different than your own.

OK, I preach enough as it is, you guys don't need any more of that.

* * *

_"Let us not ignore the truth among ourselves ... politically we are the aggressors and they defend themselves... The country is theirs, because they inhabit it, whereas we want to come here and settle down, and in their view we want to take away from them their country."_

**David Ben Gurion, First Israeli Prime Minister  
**

* * *

A gentle hand rested lightly on her upper back. "Are you OK?" 

The question was so ridiculous, Sara had to laugh out loud. "Are you kidding?"

"Sara…" The voice came from behind her, not from Grissom who was bent over next to her, trying to catch her eye.

She leaned back on her knees and looked over at Brass. "They're brothers," Sara managed to choke out. "Him and Hassan Ibrahim. I know, I heard it too."

"I'll have Sofia look into it," Brass said.

"Brass—" Sara said before he could reach for his phone. "Where are his children?"

" Sofia already went there, Sara, they're at a daycare," Brass replied.

Sara's eyes gravitated towards the gravel again. She was completely out of ideas.

"Sara…" Grissom began, but the words seemed to get lost somewhere between his brain and his lips. She simply looked at him and forced a smile.

"I'll be OK," she assured him, annoyed at herself for breaking down like that in front of all of them. "I can't say the same for Nick and Greg."

"You did good," Grissom told her confidently. "If you hadn't spoken to them, we would never have found out that he's Hassan Ibrahim's brother. And who knows, you may have bought us some time. We haven't heard a gun go off since 2:30."

Sara nodded, but she didn't believe him. She'd be damned if she let him know how guilty she really felt. "You're right," she said. "We'll just… see how…"

A loud and very annoyed voice broke into their conversation. "Dude, just get off me, OK?"

All three of them looked past the crime scene tape at Ripley and Steve. Steve still had his headset on as he jumped out of the van and walked five feet before the cord gave out and he stumbled backwards. He tore off the headset and threw it at the van, continuing to march towards Brass, Grissom and Sara on the other end of the crime scene tape.

"Delarue, get your ass back here _now_!" Ripley barked but Steve had fixed his eyes on his target and he didn't waver. "Delarue! Are you trying to get your ass fired?!"

"Bite me, Michael," Steve snapped. "You couldn't fire me even if you wanted to, I'm the best man you've got."

"Just because your sister is head of internal affairs—"

"Hey princess!" Steve interrupted, waving at Sara with something of a wildfire consuming his eyes. "Your carriage may have turned back into a pumpkin, but I think I found you a glass slipper to try on."

Sara frowned at him, almost in distaste at his poor metaphor, but like a true prince he reached out a hand and pulled her to her feet. He entered into a deep and formal bow. "M'lady," he said courteously. "If you would be so kind as to accompany me to my palace, I will make you the happiest woman in the land."

"What's going on?" Brass asked.

"I was able to catch the argument in Arabic," Steve explained. "While our previous translations didn't give us much, this one is definitely worth a listen."

"Sara Sidle is off this case," Ripley interrupted. "You shouldn't be sharing this information with her _anymore_."

"This case is still open," Grissom said calmly. "And as far as I'm concerned, there is no reason Sara should be taken off of it simply because the men inside don't want to speak to her any longer. She's the only one who's been able to get any information out of them at all. To take her off now would be brash, not to mention negligent."

Ripley silently fumed, but couldn't argue with Grissom in the face of cool logic. "Get in the van, then," he muttered. He shot daggers at Steve. "And _you_, Delarue! You better believe Jocelyn will be hearing about this."

Steve rolled his eyes and ignored him, too excited to care as he bounced like a school boy back to the van and flung the doors open. He scooped up his discarded headset off the floor and graciously offered it to Sara. "Your crown, m'lady!"

Sara smiled dimly as she put it on and Steve sat down and spun in his chair as he found the track. Brass and Grissom equipped themselves with headsets, as well as a translator Sara didn't know. Ripley simply folded his arms and pouted in the corner.

"It's a conversation," the translator explained. "Someone disagrees with this man's methods."

The Arabic rambled on in Sara's ears and she didn't understand it. "I don't know what they're saying…"

"That's OK," the translator said. "I do." He offered her his hand. "My name is Omar Sherif. Don't let my name fool you, I was born and raised on the mean streets of DC, but I do know my Arabic."

Sara managed another weak smile. "OK," she said. "So what are they saying?"

Omar gestured at Steve, who nodded and played from the beginning. "Here it is after his first big speech. This other guy is just going _off_, right, he's saying, 'You promised you wouldn't kill more than necessary. You said you would spare the women, and the children…' And it goes on like that, right, but our guy, the one talking to you snaps back at him… Steve?"

Steve nodded and switched to another layer. "Since this guy's voice is on the primary layer, it comes in more clearly," he explained.

The Arabic, though oddly comforting to Sara's nostalgic ear, was as indecipherable as ever. Omar translated. "He's saying, uh… 'You mean like they spared _your_ wife and children? Like they spared Shadi? No, brother, we are making a point here. America cannot stand back and let these people die. They need to know.' And then he gets cut off again by the other guy—"

"Hassan," Sara said.

"Beg pardon?" Omar blinked.

"Hassan is the other guy," Sara said, sure of herself now.

"And how do you know this?" Ripley spat, derisively.

Sara glanced at him. "Deductive reasoning," she explained. "Our guy called him brother. Well our guy and Hassan Ibrahim both claim to have had another brother, my guess is this Shadi person they mentioned, who was killed by an Israeli tank. It's really not that hard, I'm sure you FBI types could do it if you tried hard enough."

Steve laughed loudly. He played the second layer.

"OK," Omar said. "Here, the brother, Hassan you say, he's replying, 'You made a vow, brother. Do you think Shadi would have wanted this? I left the homeland because I knew I would surely die there. I have a family waiting for me…' uh… something about… 'my baby girl, Shaza, and Fadi, and Adam. What of them, brother? If they have evidence, I will be glad to hear it.' Then we have your guy on again…"

On cue, Steve switched frequencies and Omar continued. "He goes on about family and devotion here, how they're fighting for a cause… This phrase strikes me, he says, 'You should never try to reason with a man who has nothing to lose.' I just found it very apropos, you know? Ah, here is where it gets interesting. Hassan comes in now, I think this is what Steve was so excited about… 'No, Ali—' see, here we have a name, uh— 'I will not be a martyr, not like Shadi, and not like you. I want my wife's murderer. Ask them for the evidence! The faster we know, the faster we can kill him and be done with this.' After this, Ali starts talking to you in English again."

Sara was looking at Steve, who was grinning. "I don't get it," she said. "What's so good about that?"

"Don't you _see_?" Steve burst out. "There's dissent in the ranks! And not only do we have a relationship, we have _names_! My bet is that when he hung up with you, he started arguing with his brother. This is a _good thing_, princess!"

Sara was tired. He had gotten her hopes up for nothing and had broken her heart. "Stop calling me that…" she whispered. "It's demeaning."

Steve's face fell, almost in slow motion, and it made Sara feel worse. His child-like enthusiasm had reminded her of Greg, and she developed a stitch in her heart that felt like how a cramp in her leg would feel if she exercised and forgot to stretch.

"I, uh… I'm sorry, Sara… Miss Sidle, I just thought…"

Sara rose to her feet and took off her head set angrily, her eyes closed tight. "It doesn't _matter_ what you _thought_, Greg, you're still—" She suddenly caught herself a moment too late and her eyes fluttered open as she looked around the van to see Grissom and Brass watching her. Brass was visibly concerned but Grissom, as always, held back with his emotions, and his eyes simply seemed to bore into her, studying her, as if judging whether or not she was fit to continue with this case.

Lastly, her eyes fell on Steve who was looking up at her with the wide innocent eyes of an eight-year-old boy who had just heard his mother swear for the first time in his life. She sighed and rubbed her temples. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "Steve, I mean, I just… I don't see how that helps us any. Ali is obviously someone who cares more about the cause than his own family. I doubt that if it comes down to it, he'd even hesitate to kill his own brother to prove his point. Now, uh… I gotta… I gotta go."

She pursed her lips and wrapped her arms tightly around herself as she made for the door.

"Sara."

This word, like a spell, made her stop more than the feeble hand on her shoulder. It was crisp and heartfelt, with no meaningless and messy added words, no ellipses, no hanging questions in the air that he expected her to answer. Simply her name, and nothing more. It was sharp and to the point, like the blade of a freshly whetted knife. And it cut Sara to the core.

She turned, fell open to him like two halves of the apple pierced by William Tell himself, but she didn't say a word. She didn't need to. All he had wanted was to look at her, to see her eyes, to make sure that she was still alive and not just going through the motions.

She wasn't quite sure what he saw in her in that moment, and she probably would never know. She didn't even know what she saw in herself, how she was feeling, what she was thinking—it was as much a mystery to her as it was to him, maybe more so. Grissom always had a way of reading her like a book when her own emotions, and for that matter his, might as well have been written in Sanskrit as far as she could tell. Or Arabic. Her and her half-assed Arabic.

But she turned away from him again, sealing her soul up again in a Ziplock bag, and marched out the door as Grissom's eyes burned holes into her back and through her cramped up heart.

* * *

They were fighting now. Greg and Nick both watched them with nearly perfect apathy. They didn't know why they didn't care. They just didn't. Not anymore. 

Greg's eyes fell on the blonde teenage girl who had been among the original eleven hostages. She was shaking by Isabella's feet, hugging her knees. Isabella seemed like she was trying to sooth her, but the girl hadn't said a word as far as Greg remembered since she had been originally singled out. She looked absolutely petrified, and Greg felt immensely and unusually sorry for her. He kind of wanted to go and ask her name, calm her down, but he knew that his actions might get her killed. And besides, since he'd been shot at, Isabella had been avoiding his gaze. She was a woman he had only met a few hours ago, and she was already avoiding him. Greg's relationships often ended in awkwardness, but never had any of them progressed so quickly. They met, hooked up, and broke up all within a matter of hours. Philosophically, Greg applied this fast-tracked relationship to life in general. He remembered someone had equated the history of the Earth to the span of a day once. He wondered what his life would have been like if it was shrunk down to a single day.

In the morning he was born. Midnight to 6:00AM was his childhood, ah, the good old days, except when his mom made a fuss over a skinned knee, or when his English teacher Mrs. Bateman thought he was a moron because he could never spell. The bitch had wanted to put him in the remedial class because he didn't learn to read until he was ten years old. Thank God for Mr. Blaire, though, who had noticed Greg's talent in math and science and realized he was a real prodigy of sorts. Damn, had his folks been proud of him that day. Doing fifth grade math in first grade, and quadratic equations and derivatives when he was in fifth grade…

This first quarter of the day also consumed his teenage years, too, probably. Which meant the day his mom had _finally_ let him get a car. And then she hadn't let him drive it until he graduated high school, which luckily for Greg had been early. His first kiss—what was her name?—Caitlyn, of course, Caitlyn Cain, how could he forget… He was seventeen, which in his opinion sucked, because his mom had never left him alone with a girl long enough to make his move until then. If he'd had it his way, he would have been making out with Caitlyn Cain when he was twelve, right after his hormones started kicking in, God knows he'd had a crush on her for that long. And then the college years… wow, this was a lot of his life before 6:00AM.

So assuming the average lifespan of a human being, ruling out death by disease, accident, or criminal activity, was about one hundred years, that meant that the first twenty-five years of Greg's life all happened before 6:00AM. That was more than half his life. Greg did the math in his head… That meant that, at his current age, it was only about 7:30 for him! 7:30AM! Hell, Greg had never considered himself that young before but, _damn_! Back when he was diurnal, he wouldn't even wake up before 10:00AM for anything other than school.

"How old are you, Nick?" Greg asked suddenly.

"Hm?" Nick asked, coming out of his own reverie.

"How old are you?" Greg repeated.

"I'm thirty-six in August," Nick replied.

Greg chewed on his lip as he added it up. "That means it's only about 8:30 for you. Maybe 8:35. What month is this?"

"What are you talking about?" Nick asked, sounding exasperated.

"If your life," Greg explained, "and I mean your _whole life_, the one that you would live barring disease, accident, or crime, was all summed up by one day, you'd have only lived eight and a half hours of it by now."

"OK," Nick said, understanding. "But what if we _don't_ exclude disease, accident and crime? What if my life ends today? Then I'd have lived all twenty-four hours, wouldn't I?"

Greg opened his mouth to protest but found he couldn't refute his logic. "Huh."

"Yeah."

"But—"

"No, Greg," Nick interrupted. "Not everyone gets to live a hundred years. Some days are shorter than others."

Greg fell silent as he contemplated this. Neither of them spoke for a while, both sitting side by side and staring at the ceiling.

It occurred to Greg that he should say something. "Here I am, about to die, and I'm shrinking my whole life into the span of a day, doing useless math equations in my head to keep me sane, remembering my life as a kid… I should be talking to you."

"Hm?" Nick looked at him.

"You," Greg explained, still staring at the ceiling. He looked at the holes that the bullets left behind. "I should be talking to you. Having some sort of meaningful, life-affirming conversation or something."

"Meaningful conversation…" Nick mused.

Again, an amiable quiet befell the pair, each trying to think of what to say.

"Do you like peanut butter?" Greg said suddenly, turning to his friend.

Nick snorted, caught off guard by the curious question. "What?"

"Peanut butter," Greg repeated. "It occurred to me that I don't know that about you."

"Sure, it's OK," Nick replied noncommittally. "It sticks to the roof of my mouth, though, I don't like that."

"I _love_ peanut butter," Greg said thoughtfully. "I could eat it with anything. When I was a kid, my mom made me peanut butter popcorn balls. Shit that stuff was good."

Nick smiled at his friend and ruffled his hair. "Sometimes, I think you still _are_ a kid, Greggo."

"I don't know if I should be offended by that or not," Greg said suspiciously. "So what do you like? Other than peanut butter?"

"Baseball," Nick said automatically. "Huge Rangers fan."

"You would be," Greg said. "You blind Texan. Nah, man, it's the _Angels_, Angels all the way."

"Are you kidding?" Nick exclaimed, sitting up now and staring at Greg. "The Angels couldn't hold a _candle_ to the Rangers, especially since they lost Alex Rodriguez."

"Dude, we don't need _A-Rod_ to be good," Greg returned. "I mean, with Gary Matthews, it's impossible for us to go wrong in that outfield."

"Dude, Mathews is no Ichiro, now, if you want _talent_—"

"No fair!" Greg interrupted. "Ichiro is with the Mariners, I thought we were comparing the Rangers and the Angels!"

Nick smirked. "OK, then I give you Sammy Sosa."

"Oh, sure, you want to pull _that_ card…" But Greg was grinning too. He sighed and leaned back against the wall again, and Nick followed suit.

The quiet returned. Greg followed the flight pattern of a fly buzzing around the room.

"Nick?"

"Yeah?"

"I think you're one of my best friends."

Nick shifted and turned to look at Greg, who still seemed to be watching the fly. A sad smile crept up on his features as he let out a quiet laugh and leaned back against the wall. "Yeah," he said. "Me too."

Greg's eyes floated over to Isabella again, who had been watching him, but she quickly looked away when she saw that he'd noticed. He looked over to Ali, who was still arguing with Mask in Arabic. He decided to venture a visit and got to his feet, walking carefully over to Isabella, knowing he was treading on thin ice with every step.

She turned away from him abruptly, as though her cold ignorance would maybe turn him away, but he saw her glance over her shoulder to see if he was still there, which he was. She tried to talk to the blonde teenage girl to look like she was busy doing something, but the girl wouldn't speak and Isabella just ended up frustrated.

"Hey."

She jumped, even though she'd known he'd been coming. She turned and held her breath. She didn't know what to say to him.

He saved her the trouble. "It's OK," he said. "It wasn't your fault."  
She blinked at him, surprised. "And what makes you so sure I was going to apologize?" Though her words were defiant, the notes in her voice made it obvious that it had been her intention all along.

So Greg favored her with a kind smile. "Ali fired the gun, and Jared for whatever reason decided to get in the way."

Isabella avoided his eyes. "I'm… sorry," she whispered reluctantly. "I don't know why I acted like that. Imagine, trying to start a relationship in a situation like this. I was just… looking for something to leave behind, you know? I just wanted to…"

"Feel alive?" Greg supplied helpfully.

Her laughter was like bells. "Yeah," she said. "So I guess you were right all along..."

"I don't even know your last name," Greg said. "I don't know anything about you at all."

"Nor I about you," Isabella agreed.

Greg shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Isabella glanced at the feuding Ali and Mask. "If I wasn't so goddamn scared of that bastard, it would seem like a good idea now, too."

Greg smiled at her kindly and winked. "I'll protect you."

"Please, sting-bean," Isabella said teasingly. "I can protect myself.

Greg laughed lightly. He pushed a strand of her dark hair away from her smooth cheek. "No," he said seriously. "I'll protect you."

She blushed and tilted her head away from him.

He gently caressed her cheek and pushed her head up to face him again. "You're a very beautiful woman, Isabella."

She reached up and held his hand, her touch warm and electric. It nearly set him on fire and Greg wondered if spontaneous combustion would be a cooler way to die than a gunshot to the head. For a moment, he wanted to kiss her to test that theory, but decided against it. The feel of her cheek against his hand was enough to remind him that there was a whole other world outside these community center walls, a life that he craved desperately to have back. There were people who he cared about and who cared about him outside of the twenty-five hostages. He had thought himself lucky to have one loving family, his mother and father and his grandparents. But he had been twice blessed to find a second family in his work, people he depended on, people he would risk his life for, and who would doubtlessly return the favor. But now, he had thought it was impossible, but he had found a third family, forged only within the span of a few hours. His older brother, who liked peanut butter and baseball, his two younger brothers whom he had looked after as best he could, his lover whose last name was as much of a mystery to him as the vision of her naked body under cotton sheets in the dim glow of dawn creeping through the drawn curtains…

"Thank you."

The way she whispered the words, with such passion and understanding, Greg almost thought she knew him inside out. But that was impossible. He hadn't known she existed a few hours ago. How he felt so close to these people, he didn't know, but he was grateful for it.

She looked up at the ceiling and whispered in Spanish. "_Dios nos ayuda_… What a time to be alive, huh? On the one hand, we're nothing. We're dirt. On the other hand, we're the reason the universe was made."

Greg frowned at this statement, contemplating it as she clutched the cross that hung around her neck.

With a nervous glance at Ali again, she seemed to decide that Greg was worth the risk and their lips connected, softly, sensually, sweet and warm.

Pulling away sharply, they both glanced around the room and at each other. No one seemed to be shouting, and no one had gotten shot. They smirked at each other in triumph.

Stolen kisses had a whole new meaning.


	11. War Zone

_**Author's Note:**_ Lieutenant Simon Rivers is actually based on a real person I met (whose name happened to be Jake) and the story about being thrown out of the bar is actually true (though the rest of Simon's accounts are not). Though Jake was not a lieutenant, nor an amputee, he was pretty cool and I loved talking to him. We differed on plenty political issues, but I respected him because he knew what he was talking about and he believed in what he was saying. I love him because he reminds me that different opinions and perspectives are good, and when you talk to people don't expect to persuade them to your side but try to explain why you believe what you do, and understand why they might disagree. I love diversity. :o)

Also, it's pure coincidence that I only just realized now that his name happens to be the combined names of Joss Whedon's _Firefly_ siblings Simon and River Tam. I guess it was a subconscious thing.

**Latin Lesson of the Day:** "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" roughly translates to "It is sweet and nobel to die for the fatherland."

* * *

_If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood  
Come gargling from their froth-corrupted lungs  
Obscene as Cancer, bitter as the cud  
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--  
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest  
To children ardent for some desperate glory  
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est  
Pro patria mori.**  
**_

**"Dulce Et Decorum Est" by Wilfred Owen**

* * *

Nick hadn't been the only witness to Greg and Isabella's shared passion, but he was the only one who swelled with pride at the sight of it. Leave it to Greg to find romance in even the most hopeless situations. It was just typical of him. 

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" came a thick southern accent. "I think so, at any rate." Nick looked up to see a strong looking man leaning against the wall as he smiled at Greg and Isabella. He had a crew cut, and Nick noted that his arm was missing. He continued to speak. "So I know you. You're the one that tried to save the pregnant lady. That was mighty fine of you, you know. Heroic, some might say."

Nick didn't know why, but he felt he ought to stand out of respect. He held out his right hand, then switched upon realizing the man only had his left arm intact. "Nick Stokes."

"Simon Rivers," he replied, taking Nick's hand.

Nick smiled knowingly. "Now that's a Marine's handshake if I ever felt one, am I right?"

Simon chuckled. "I'm a lieutenant, yeah. Lost this arm in Baghdad in a car bomb."

Nick was impressed momentarily, and then depressed. "Wow… You went through all that just to come back here and deal with this shit, huh?"

The lieutenant looked out at the bickering terrorists, then smiled strongly at Nick. "Ah," he said, shrugging it off. "I've seen worse."

"I'll bet," Nick said. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Ah, well, I knew a few Muslims myself over in Iraq," Simon explained. "I was passing by, saw they were celebrating the Eid… Figured it wouldn't be a bad idea. That's the last time I be spontaneous."

"It must really rile you, this sort of thing," Nick noted as he watched Ali and Mask continue to argue. "It's folk like them that make guys like Mr. Patriot over there—" he nodded to the murdered racist, "—think that they're all extremists."

Simon held his breath before letting out a long sigh. "Before I went overseas, I can't say I was much unlike our dead friend over there," Simon admitted. "I mean, I didn't think they were all terrorists, and I was polite to them and all, but… I'd cross the street when I'd see an Arab walking up, or I'd be nervous when two of them might speak in Arabic around me because I didn't know what they were saying. It's the little racisms that we often aren't even aware of. It's in all of us. And sometimes, you just can't help it."

As Nick looked around at the men who held them captive, he couldn't help but understand exactly what Simon Rivers was saying. He had always thought of himself as a nice guy, always open-minded and unprejudiced, after all in his job, he had to be. He saw a lot of strange things. But he knew that if he made it out of here, no matter what he told himself, he would never be able to look at a Middle Easterner the same way again. And he knew it was wrong, and it wouldn't affect the way he treated them, but in the back of his mind, he would always be just a little bit afraid of them. And a part of himself hated that, while another part of himself knew that it was survival instincts that made these things happen. Fear the different and propagate your own breed. If it's you or them, always choose yourself. Self-centered evolution. Survival of the fittest race.

It was in this recognition that he came to some unnerving understanding of the terrorist's minds as well. They were acting out of hatred and fear. They had grown up with death, had been victimized, had been taught that the only way to survive, the only way to spread your message, is to kill everyone who doesn't agree. Is to kill everyone who would otherwise kill you.

"Before the war," Simon continued, "I was also a fervent supporter of our President George 'Dubya' Bush."

"Now not so much?" Nick inquired.

"I don't mean to start any political conversations," Simon said hastily. "You're entitled to your opinion, it's just that… When you look at what's going on over there, I mean, I thought we were gonna be doing some good, you know? The people there, they don't quite see it the same way as we do back home. I went over when this all started, you know, back in 2003. And I was full of all these ideas and shit… And then when I got there, and I saw what was going on, I wondered if he—that is to say, our Commander in Chief or any of his puppeteers— had any idea what kind of mess he was starting. Don't get me wrong— I'm still a staunchly red republican, but I'm no fool. There are dark things over there. Everything changes. The world you thought it was, it ain't. There are no rules, and there are no sure things. And you think you're the good guys, little do you know the ones you're gunning down think the exact same thing about themselves. Nah, there's no good in war, you learn that quick. You're all just bad guys, killing people you rationalize are more bad than you are only because you can't fathom anything else lest you lose your nerve in battle. Let me tell you, when you got a terrorist attack on your barracks, bombs going off left and right, not to mention the explosions from damaged ammunition, you can convince yourself of anything. It's all about perspective. Even with these folk here."

Nick cast his eyes downward, partly out of respect for all this man had seen, but also partly because he knew that no matter how he tried, he knew he would never have any idea what it was like to be fighting in a war you don't even know if you believe in anymore. It was an experience he thanked God he never had to go through.

Simon continued. "Colleague of mine got a purple heart for rescuing five men from becoming POWs and rigging the enemy's own trucks to explode, killing fifty insurgents. I always said, you want to punish the crooks and fight a war, you send them folks on death row on over here, let them take care of it, kill two birds with one stone. They got the killing blood already in them. Me, I wasn't so sure. At least not until I bagged myself a first kill. First blood. The smell of it stirs something primal in you, wouldn't you say, Mr. Stokes? Nick?"

"I wouldn't know," Nick muttered honestly.

"And yet…" Simon continued. "I come back here, and I don't get arrested. I don't get my rights read to me, I don't got to hire no fancy lawyers, I just got to grin and keep my mouth shut while I accept my honors for getting my arm blown off from a president I don't know if I rightly trust anymore…

"I went to a club with some girls I'd known before the war after I get back, they were republicans too, and we go in this bar up in Seattle. The bartender flirted with one of them, she wasn't interested. He flipped out when he looked _in her purse_ and saw an elephant pin that said _Vote Republican_. She wasn't even wearing it or nothing, this guy looked in her _purse_ and found it and what's this guy do? He kicks us out of his bar, that's right, kicks us right on out, saying, 'I don't want no brainless Bush lackeys runnin' up in here!' Bush lackeys! Can you imagine that? Kicked us out of his bar for _that_. And here I was thinking America was the civil side of the world. Tell you the truth, people are more up front about things when their on the front lines. They may judge you based on nationality, based on religion, but here in the US of A, we take bigotry to a whole new level. No, now we have to judge people based on political opinion, based on what shoes they wear, or how they brush their hair…

"Now, I know you didn't ask for a sermon, Nick, but… These folks? These terrorists up in here? They've been more honest with me than my own government, s'far as I can tell. They point their gun at me and they tell me I step outta line and they're gonna kill me, plain and simple. Our Commander in Chief, he makes you sign a piece of paper without giving you time to read the fine print. He shows you a military beret and hidden behind it is a loaded AK 47, and he says to you, 'Serve your country, fight for freedom, and you'll be honored…'" Simon's eyebrows furrowed, his lips twitching in a dark frown. When he spoke again, his voice was colder, darker, and that darkness _was_ something Nick could relate to. "The deaths I saw… a man's head cut completely down the middle, a soldier torn clearly in half, his clothes burned right off by a land mine, his torso in a tree and his legs meat for the dogs on the ground… Nah, Nick. There ain't no honor in a death like that."

Nick felt chilled by his words, like a ten-year-old who had just heard a gory, hideous ghost story at one o'clock in the morning. Cautiously, he looked up at the lieutenant who was staring out into space with the strangest frown on his face, probably lost in some horrible memory Nick would never be able to fathom.

Suddenly, Simon seemed to return to himself and he tried to laugh it off as he grinned at Nick with yellowing teeth, patting his new friend on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, I never meant to pull you intow that sorta thing. Anyways, you were yellin' earlier, thought I recognized an accent, mind if I inquire as to where you're from?"

" Dallas," Nick replied, glad for a chance to participate in the conversation.

Simon nodded, seeming excited and for a moment, Nick actually thought he might whoop like a cowboy. "Hot damn, I thought so, a fellow Texan, eh? I'm from Katy myself, up by Houston don't you know. Well you know what this means, dontchya?" Nick cocked an eyebrow in response and Simon nearly doubled over with laughter. "It _means, _my friend, that we're brothers now. It's the Texan way, you know. We have to look out for each other, like in the army. You look out for your family, and I promise you, Nick, I do well at looking after me and my own."

Nick smiled with gratitude. "That's mighty fine of you, Lieutenant— Simon. But you wouldn't mind doing me a favor then, would you?"

"Anything for a brother, brother!" Simon exclaimed proudly.

Nick nodded over at Greg. "You see that boy over there? The one with the lovely Latina? Well, he's not too bright when it just comes down to it, and so somebody's gotta make sure he doesn't get himself in too much trouble. Lately, that somebody's been me, but two pairs of eyes are better than one if you catch my drift. If you look out for me, well that's swell, but it'd be even better if you could keep an eye out for him, too."

Simon looked pensively over at Greg and nodded slowly. "Not too bright, you say?"

"A real dope," Nick affirmed.

A slow grin spread across Simon's features. "Well of course I can look out for the kid. Bright or not, he's sure got balls. I've seen him, too, you know, like I've seen you. He's done something for every one of those poor folk Ali has shot. Yeah, he's got balls alright. Balls and a big heart."

Nick snorted at the amusing thought, but found that he had to agree. "Yup," he said, looking over at Greg. "That's him to a T. Dopey kid with balls and a big heart."

The argument between Mask and Ali came to a climax as Ali let out a wild cry and brought out his gun, pointing it at Mask. Everyone in the room froze.

"La."

The word was loud, but calm, and had come from Amira Osman, who had risen to her feet. Her eyes were warm as she gazed at the two of them and slowly shook her head. "Ali… La."

For the first time in the four hours Nick had known him, Ali hesitated. He was breathing deeply, and his gun flew from Mask to Amira, as though deciding which of the two he would rather kill, but knowing there would be some consequence to each death.

Like a raven-haired angel, Amira glided over to Ali, moving ever so slowly and carefully. She called him "Akhi," a word that sounded soft and kind, despite the harsh consonants in it.

"La?!" he screamed. She stopped and he lowered his gun, his eyes impassive as he studied her. Then he shook his head, and his voice was calmer now, but firm. "La."

He spun on his heal walked away from Amira and Mask, who seemed to exchange knowing looks. Amira looked like she was bursting to scream something, but couldn't quite find the courage.

Ali walked right over to where Greg was on the stage and Nick was ready to leap into action. If that bastard laid a finger on his friend again, this time Nick was willing to risk it all.

But it wasn't Greg Ali was looking for after all. He leapt up onto the stage and Greg scrambled to his feet, looking ready to fight this time around, but Ali just pushed him aside and pulled Isabella up hastily, who had been sitting near Greg with her head on his shoulder. She cried out as Ali dug his fingers into her scalp and yanked her head down, forcing her to her knees again in front of him. He stood behind her and nestled the barrel of the gun into the nape of her neck. She tried to tilt her head up but he forced it down again and she stumbled onto her hands. He pulled her back up by the collar into a kneeling position, her head hanging low as her silk hair fell forward, hiding her face. It was an execution position.

Ali looked around the room at all of them. "I am getting tired of these games," he said quietly, though the room was so silent even a whisper would have reached everyone's ears. "And I missed the hour mark by ten minutes now. So. I _highly_ suggest that the murderer _speak up now_ so we can all go home, or this woman, and many more after her, will die."

He was looking directly at Noah Berkowitz, who was deathly pale. Even his shirt was white, and his dark hair didn't help. Indeed, the only color on him was the red stain on his shirt from where his arm had been grazed by the bullet earlier.

It was then and only then that Nick realized why this whole event had occurred, and why Noah had been included in the original eleven hostages and his wife hadn't been. Ali was convinced that Noah had done it, Noah had killed Farah Ibrahim, only… Only Nick highly doubted that was true.

Noah seemed to realize this at the same time Nick did and Nick saw comprehension hit him on the head like a sledgehammer. He seemed to waver on the spot, and Nick had no doubt as to why. All the blood had abandoned his brain and he suddenly turned to the side and threw up, his wife looking after him.

Ali saw this too, but didn't take it as the confession he had been looking for. Isabella's quiet sobs could be heard around them.

Greg was on his feet and in an almost sprinting position, his face set in a furiously determined expression and Nick realized with horror that he had a kamikaze last resort plan to try and save the young girl he had grown so fond of. Before Greg did that, Nick needed to stop him.

"Ali," Nick said calmly, his eyes moving quickly from Greg to the terrorist. "Let the girl alone. She didn't kill Farah Ibrahim any more than you or I did. The person you think is a murderer… My bet is he has an alibi. My bet is the man you're looking for isn't even in this room."

Greg glanced at Nick, then back to Ali before he made a move to knock the man off his feet, but Simon latched onto him with his one arm and Greg stumbled forward to his knees, looking up at Simon in anger and confusion. How _dare_ this person try to stop him. He'd promised to protect Isabella and that was exactly what he was going to do. But for a one-armed man, Simon was strong, and had kept his balance better than Greg had. He knew how to use his one arm better than Greg could use both of his.

"Ali, please." Nick resorted to begging now. "The killer isn't here."

"There are multiples," Mask spoke up. "Tell them, Ali. Tell them that there was more than _one_ murderer."

Ali was breathing hard, his attention focused on Isabella. "There is always more than one, Hassan," he whispered. "And they are called Jews."

There was the clapping of thunder, like Zeus casting his indisputable judgment on them all. Isabella's quiet sobs halted at that sound. The blood spilled from her neck as she fell forward, the navy jacket of her business suit stained crimson, her lips partially open as her head turned to the side. Her dead eyes were staring directly at Greg, who was still on his knees and looked absolutely terrified. His breaths were tremulous as he lost his balance and fell forward onto his hands, lowering himself onto his stomach with wide eyes, as though he needed to get a closer look to make sure she was really dead. And as he got close enough to see that there was nothing in her eyes, he recoiled viciously back onto his knees again, repulsed by the sight as he scrambled backwards into Simon's legs.

"She was… I never knew her last name…"

Ali turned to look at him, his eyes callous and barren. "Your slut is dead," he said to Greg. "Now you know a fraction of the pain that Farah's husband feels."

He kicked her body angrily and walked off the stage. Isabella's blood slowly pooled onto the wood and trickled down the side of the stage like red beads of oil on an unfinished surrealist's painting…

* * *

Warrick leaned against Catherine's car as she fumbled with her keys. He wondered vaguely where she was going to take him. To the lab? To the community center? These were places he wanted to go, places he might have been useful. But in the back of his clouded mind, he knew she was probably going to take him home. It was ten past three now, according this watch. Someone else had died in the last ten minutes. 

This was no real news to Warrick, though. He knew that statistically, there were people dying every minute. One hundred and sixty-one was the statistic, last time he checked. That was a lot of people. But in the last ten minutes, Nick or Greg might have been included in that statistic.

"Hey… Hey, ma'am, could you do us a favor?"

Warrick saw Catherine turn around and look at some approaching teenagers and she shook her head fervently. "Oh no," she said. "Go home, kids."

"Nah, see, I'm actually from Spain, and where I'm from you can drink when you're eighteen, so I was just wondering if you could get us some beer—"

"I said go home, kids," Catherine repeated firmly. "And the drinking age in Spain is sixteen. For the record. And what an impeccable American accent you have, for a Spaniard."

"Come on, lady, you're our last hope, alright, just cut a kid a break. Don't you remember what it's like to be my age?"

"I do," she said. "And I have a teenage daughter who I know I wouldn't want hanging out with people like you. Now go home." Catherine turned back to the car and smiled at Warrick on the other side as she put the key in the lock. She let out a muted grunt and suddenly doubled over. Warrick was tossed into a sea of confusion without a lifebelt.

"Catherine…?" he called uncertainly, unable to see her over the car anymore. But he did see the kids. Three of them.

He immediately stumbled around the hood of the car, trying to keep his balance, and saw Catherine doubled over as the three kids assaulted her.

"Hey!" he called to them, uselessly. He needed to help her. He needed to focus! They were only teenagers, but they were three of them, and if he didn't act now, they could seriously hurt Catherine.

Desperate, Warrick reached for his gun only to find he wasn't even wearing his holster. He had left it in the car before heading into the bar, as he was off duty. But now, Catherine needed him, and he felt helpless now that he couldn't come through for her.

His world was rocking back and forth like he was trying to walk on a ship setting sail on stormy seas. He had to keep his balance. He had to help Catherine. Why was there so much screaming? He staggered towards her, the kids landing hits and kicks on her stomach and shoulders. He thought they would destroy her and he was absolutely petrified.

"Hey!" he called out again. If anything happened to her, it would be all his fault. If anything happened to her, he would never touch a sip of alcohol ever again in his life. If anything happened to her…

But through his drunken daze, he couldn't tell that Catherine was avidly and viciously fighting back against her attackers, who ripped at her hair and pushed her up against the car. She cleverly used the car as leverage and raised both her feet off the ground, kicking straight out and pushing them away from her before drawing her gun, pointing it at all of them. "Back off!" she insisted, and they did with their hands up. "Now I don't want to shoot a kid, but I will if you make one wrong move, are we _very_ clear?"

"Shit, she has a _gun_, yo!" one of them exclaimed.

"Warrick!" Catherine called, never taking her eyes off of the miscreants. "Get out your phone and call Sofia, have her pull these punks in for assault and possession."

"Possession?" Warrick slurred, but he was fishing out his phone nonetheless. She was OK. She was OK. No thanks to him. But he wouldn't talk about that now. He had to call Sofia. Sofia… She was doing something… And it was important, what was it?

"I smell pot on them," she replied.

"Aw _man_, dude, she's a _cop_!" another whined.

" Sofia's on the Ibrahim case," Warrick said, just remembering.

Catherine looked at their shoes and her frowned deepened. "What size shoe do you wear?"

"What? What kind of question is that?" the first kid asked, the supposed Spaniard.

"Call Sofia," Catherine repeated. "She'll want to ask these kids a few questions."


	12. Hang Ups

_**Author's Note:**_ I know I quote Rachel Corrie a lot. But I find her words so moving and her story so tragic. Uh... what drabble can I spout to introduce this chapter... Eli Eberstark is a completely fictional creation, but was inspired by my history class and a trip to Amsterdam. And Elie Weisel. It's all included in my list of additional material (posted at the end). Your reviews make my day! Thanks so much for those of you who review, I love hearing your thoughts on the topics discussed (and I love hearing opinions that aren't represented here too). I was worried about bringing in Simon, as Iraq tends to be an even touchier issue among Americans than the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but I'm glad his views (and consequently the views of my friend Jake) were so well-received. And I'm glad you liked Simon as a character, because he _will_ be used again.

* * *

_"The scariest thing for non-Jewish Americans in talking about Palestinian self-determination is the fear of being or sounding anti-Semitic. The people of Israel are suffering and Jewish people have a long history of oppression. We still have some responsibility for that, but I think it's important to draw a firm distinction between the policies of Israel as a state, and Jewish people. That's kind of a no-brainer, but there is very strong pressure to conflate the two. I try to ask myself, whose interest does it serve to identify Israeli policy with all Jewish people?"_

**Rachel Corrie, a messy, skinny, articulate, Salvador Dali-loving chain-smoker with a passion for the music of Pat Benatar.**

* * *

Nick had gone to Greg immediately after the execution of Isabella. Greg's eyes were glazed over, as though his brain had crawled out of his skull and left his body behind. Nick dug his nails into Greg's upper arm to make sure he was still with this world. 

"Greg? Greg!" He shook his friend, trying desperately to pull him out of his stupor.

Greg slowly turned his head to look at Nick as he blinked, fixing him with a blank stare. "Nick, I…"

"What did I tell you about keeping your feet on the ground, man?" Nick said, trying to keep his voice from quaking. "You have to stay detached. Enough to recognize that there is nothing you could have done, alright?"

Greg was shivering, like a dog left out in the cold for far too long. "I just want to go home, Nick…" he whimpered. "I just want that intellectual detachment back, you know? To be able to read about the misery of the world and not lose a moment out of my busy day…"

Nick wished there was something he could do or say that would make all of his fear, all of his anguish disappear and go somewhere far, far away. He wished he could give Greg what he wanted, he wished he could take him home, turn back time, make it so none of this nightmare ever happened.

Greg didn't seem to notice that Nick was searching for some magical cure-all phrase to say to fix all of their problems. He was still in somewhat of a daze and his lips moved almost automatically, the words dull as though they carried no meaning. "I told her I'd protect her…"

"And I'm telling you that you can't make promises like that," Nick said. "Not in this place."

"You promised me you wouldn't die," Greg pointed out.

Nick bit his lip so hard he drew blood and he closed his eyes quickly and looked away. His grip on Greg's arm slackened and his hand fell back to his side again. "It was a promise I made out of fear, Greg," he said. "I don't want to die. I also promised myself that I wouldn't let _you_ die either, but I can't… I know that there's a possibility that I won't be able to keep one or both of those promises, but…"

"But you say them anyway," Greg said for him. "Because you need that little bit of hope, even though it's unfounded."

Nick looked up at Greg again to see that the mist in his eyes had dissipated and he was looking at Nick with a hardened gaze. He wasn't the same Greg Sanders as he was four hours ago, but he wasn't completely dead either. Nick knew that he was a changed man too. The darkness had seen to that.

He jumped as his phone vibrated in his pocket.

"What's wrong?" Greg said, suddenly concerned at the fear that was sneaking into Nick's expression. Nick gestured at his pocket with his eyes.

"Grissom," he whispered.

Greg was impassive. "You going to risk it?"

Nick had seen people shot and killed for less. "Not this time."

"I would," Greg said.

"You'd risk your life for a kiss," Nick said. "I'm not you."

Greg was offended by that. His voice was firm when he demanded instead of asked. "Give me the phone."

"Shut up, Greg." Nick turned away from him, but Greg caught his shoulder.

"If I'm going to die, Nick, I want to say goodbye."

Nick froze. The phone was still vibrating in his pocket. "If you're going to die, Greg," he said slowly, "I don't want you to get blood on my phone."

"I promise I'll be discreet." Nick couldn't tell if Greg had found Nick's dark attempt at humor funny or not. He turned around to see a small smile on Greg's face and relaxed a little. He glanced at Ali and Mask. Ali was staring out the window at the cop cars and Mask was having a quiet conversation with Amira. Two of the other terrorists were playing cards with each other, and the others seemed to be falling asleep standing up. He wouldn't have risked an escape, but a phone call… They weren't paying any attention to Nick and Greg, despite Mask's ominous warning that he would keep a close eye on them. His outburst with Ali seemed to make him forget that promise.

With a shaky hand Nick reached into his pocket, and Greg took the phone as soon as it was out. Nick caught Simon's eye and he came forward and stepped in front of Greg, blocking him from view.

"Greg, get down," Nick ordered and he cooperated, crouching down and facing the back of the stage.

Greg's heart was pumping loudly as it jumped into his throat. He stared at the phone, the caller ID blinking. _Grissom_. He held his breath as he clutched the phone to his ear. "Grissom? It's Greg."

There was a pause, and then a breathless, "_Greg?_"

Greg let out a hysterical laugh of relief at the sound of his supervisor's voice. He closed his eyes, on the verge of tears. "Damn, it's so good to hear you."

He heard the elation in Grissom's voice creeping past his defenses. "Oh God, Greg… We're hearing too many gunshots. Are things OK?" Greg didn't answer at first, remembering the sight of Isabella, shaking with sobs as she was forced to her knees. "Greg? Why did you answer Nick's phone? Is he OK?"

Greg was jolted back to the conversation at this anxious query. "Yeah, yeah, he's fine, he's just…" he glanced up at Nick who was trying to look casual as he and Simon tried to keep the terrorists' eyes off of Greg. "He didn't want to answer the phone."

"I don't want to put you guys at a higher risk then you already—"

"Grissom," Greg interrupted, knowing he didn't have time. "This guy's losing his patience. I think…" He couldn't say it. How did you tell someone that you were sure you were going to die? Would Grissom think he'd lost faith in him? It wasn't that he didn't think Grissom and Sara wouldn't find anything, it was just that he didn't think it mattered anymore. Ali didn't care about the evidence, and he was at the end of his rope. "Listen, is any of the team there with you?"

"Brass is here, Sara's outside, Catherine is at the lab, and Warrick… I don't know where Warrick is. Not here. But Greg, Sofia's tracking down suspects, she'll find something—"

"Could you… I mean, could you call Sara in? I want her to hear this," Greg said.

Grissom held his breath. "Greg, we'll think of something."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Greg said with a small laugh. "You're just dependable like that, Grissom."

"Then why are you talking like you think we won't come through for you?" Grissom asked. "Why are you acting like you've given up?"

There was no way he could explain to Grissom all the reasons he had given up without sounding like he was weak, or a coward. He knew Grissom didn't understand what it was like to watch people, some of them people he was foolish enough to try to comfort and get close to, gunned down right in front of him like fish in a barrel, never knowing if he could be next. He couldn't explain how he knew, like an uncanny premonition from some higher power, that the next hour would be the most explosive. And that regardless of who really killed Farah Ibrahim, Ali and Mask and all of them in that community center would never know because they would all be dead before Ali listened to reason. He couldn't explain it, and he knew if he tried he would just sound like he'd lost faith in Grissom, and he didn't want that.

"Grissom, believe me when I say that there is no one on the planet who I would trust with my life other than you. You're good at what you do, and I respect that more than you know. So… So just humor me for a second. I know you'll come through for me, like you always do. I have no doubt that you'll find who killed Farah Ibrahim and bring those bastards to justice. I just want to talk to Sara, and Brass, and well, anyone who's around, really. I mean, just hearing _your_ voice is a morale booster, Griss, and you're not even a hot chick. Think what the lovely Sara Sidle could do for my confidence, here, eh?"

There was a moment. And then, "Greg, it's Brass. Grissom just went outside to get Sara. How you doing there, kiddo?"

"Oh, you know, Brass, the usual, hanging out, picking up chicks, keeping Nick out of trouble—"

"I resent that," Nick muttered under his breath.

Greg grinned and looked up at his friend. "You wanna talk to Brass?" he whispered.

"_Don't move_."

The order hadn't come from Nick, but from Simon standing next to him.

"What?" Greg asked, but Nick's back had already stiffened.

"Greg? It's me. Are you OK?" Sara! Hearing Grissom, then Brass, and now Sara, it was like he'd just won a trip to Disney World. But he really wished everyone would stop asking him if he was OK. He was just about to reply when he found the reason for Nick's sudden tension.

"How did you lose your arm?"

The voice had come from neither Nick nor Simon and Greg's vocal cords turned to brittle icicles in his throat.

"_Greg?!_"

Greg's jaw quaked, wanting to answer Sara's desperate call, wanting to hang up, wanting to do _something _rather than just sit there like an idiot waiting for Mask to look behind Nick and—

"Iraq," Simon answered the query. "Car bomb exploded. Killed my best friend and decided to take my arm with it."

"A soldier…" Mask said. There was something in his voice that Greg couldn't place. It wasn't admiration, and it wasn't disgust, but it was something between the two. Something seemed to occur to him. "Where's your friend?"

"_Greg_! Are you there, Greg?"

_Hang up the phone, hang up the phone, hang up the mother fucking phone!_

His fingers clenched around it. As much as he knew he needed to, he couldn't let go of Sara's voice. He needed it, like a lifeline. He needed something to help him feel safe again.

"You mean Greg?" Nick's voice was barely under control. "I saw him talking to the old man over there a few minutes ago. He's not my brother, and I'm not his keeper."

Sara's voice was on the edge of calm, faltering ever so slightly. "Greg… I hear Nick. What's going on?"

"I saw him earlier," Simon added. "He looked tired, I told him to get some sleep."

_Hang up the Goddamn phone, Greg!_ Nick's thoughts seemed to burn telepathically through Greg's skull.

"Why are you standing so close together?"

"We're pals, Nick and I!" Simon exclaimed, throwing his arm over Nick's shoulder.

Warm compassion in the notes of a familiar melody. "Greg, if you're there, I just wanted you to know—"

A cold will carved in stone. "Step aside."

The protective sacrifice of a brother-in-arms. "Man, now wait a minute there, I wanted to ask you—"

And the reflexive initiative of an experienced warrior. "Whoa!" Simon said no words, but he fell backwards, tripping over Greg and making him yelp as he dropped the phone. In the commotion, Simon seized the phone and kicked it across the stage where it fell under the curtains by the back wall.

"What the hell was that?!" Mask exclaimed, absolutely outraged. He looked at Simon and Greg who were sprawled over each other. "I knew he was behind you." Mask cocked his gun.

"Whoa, kid!" Simon laughed as he sat up, which was a very awkward thing to watch as he propped himself up with one arm. "I told you to catch some shuteye, I didn't mean to take it right _behind_ me!" He looked up at Mask. "I think he tripped me for a practical joke, didn't you?"

Simon, Nick and Mask all looked to Greg, whose eyes were wide. All he could do was fake a yawn.

Slowly, Mask lowered his gun and exhaled sharply out of his nostrils. "You're lucky it's only 3:20 and we've already wasted one hostage." He holstered his gun. He seemed angrier than he'd been a few hours ago. Greg figured it was the argument over the evidence that changed him.

Nick followed Mask with his eyes until he was sure the man was very far away from the stage before venturing to the curtains. "Jesus _Christ_, Greg!" he hissed, glaring at his friend. "Why didn't you hang up the _phone_?!"

Greg's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. "Nick, Sara, she was…" But he had no excuse. He had crumbled under pressure and he had clung to his only link to the outside world because anything else would have shattered him completely.

Nick fell to his knees and felt under the curtains for the phone.

"You are searching for this?"

Nick froze in his tracks before slowly looking up. It was the tall, elderly European man who had been part of the original eleven. He was holding Nick's cell phone out to him. Nick unsteadily stood upright and took the phone from the man. Their eyes locked. The old man's face was etched with deep lines that crawled under his eyes and across his cheeks like the bark on a tree. He captured Nick with the coldness of his stare which seemed to chase all warmth from his body completely.

"Thank you…" Nick said slowly.

"We need some form of connection with the world outside," the old man said. "Sometimes, even something as small as a photograph can remind you that there is a softer world beyond stone walls."

"Not in my line of work," Nick muttered, but he had to admit that he agreed. He extended his hand. "My name is Nick Stokes."

"Eli," the old man replied. "Eli Eberstark."

"So what brought an old-timer like you down here?" Nick asked. "Were you here with your children? Your grandchildren?"

"A few years ago, I was asked by Noah Berkowitz to give a lecture on the importance of history in understanding cultures," Eli explained. "Afterwards, he was kind enough to invite me to all of the events of this organization. I have been a member ever since."

"Where are you from?" Nick asked. "I can't place your accent…"

"Mr. Eberstark!" Noah said in a harsh whisper, coming up behind them. "I thought I told you to stay by the wall. I don't need your life on my hands too."

Eli smiled kindly down at Noah. "I have been in worse situations," he assured him. "You need to be patient, Noah." His smile faded as he looked past Noah to Claire, who was leaning against the wall and looking ill. "You should take care of your wife and child. You have a legacy to look after."

There was a sad tone to his voice and Nick couldn't place why. Eli stumbled and Noah caught him.

"Mr. Eberstark," Noah said. "You're tired. You're not used to being up this late. Can I please help you lie down?"

But Eli was looking at Nick and the smile returned to his withered features. "Every man has a story to tell, Nick Stokes. Every man, no matter who he is, has his own piece of history that is always lost with his death."

Nick watched them curiously as Noah led Eli away, leaving an eerie silence in their wake. He jogged after them and called, "Wait!" He wanted to talk to this interesting man. "You never told me where you were from."

Noah and Eli looked at Nick with different expressions. Noah wanted to have Eli sitting down, staying out of the way of things, but Eli was smiling.

"I am German, Mr. Stokes," he said. "And I am Jewish."

Nick knew what these two statements meant the moment Eli Eberstark spoke them, and suddenly his dark eyes and hard lines made sense to Nick as the breath caught in his throat. "You're a Holocaust survivor," he muttered.

Eli smiled and nodded slowly.

"Now you understand why I feel responsible for him," Noah explained. "He's been through enough for one lifetime, he doesn't need this stress."

Eli was paying no attention to Noah. "I knew people who were able to escape Germany during its purging and they fled to Israel, praying to find sanctuary in Zion. They met with malcontented locals who treated them worse than the Germans at times. The Nazi-sympathizing leader of the Palestinian people was not kind to them. But…" Eli trailed off, his eyes lost in some far away thought. "That was a long time ago," he said.

"You're right," Nick said to Noah. "He shouldn't be here."

Noah was looking at his wife nervously. "Would you look after her?" he asked Nick. "I need to make sure Mr. Eberstark stays out of sight."

Nick's eyes gravitated over to Claire, who seemed to be fighting to control her breathing and was suddenly worried. He nodded at Noah and immediately rushed over to her. She looked like she could be in her third trimester. What a time to have a baby!

"Are you alright?"

She was startled by the question. "Oh. Yes, I'm fine, thanks. The… baby is causing trouble, that's all." Nick's concern must have been evident in his expression because she quickly elaborated. "No, he's just kicking up a storm in there, nothing drastic. Little tyke does this all the time…" She winced in pain, but then smiled at Nick to assure him she'd be fine. "Doctors said my hips weren't wide enough to be able to support a child. Guess I showed them, huh?"

Something was wrong. "How far along are you?"

"Seven months," Claire replied, then winced again. "I told you, I won't go into labor. Just—ugh—cramps sometimes."

Grim recognition eclipsed Nick's features. "Mrs. Berkowitz, you should lie down, relax a little, and though I know this is a ridiculous request considering the circumstances, try not to stress out too much."

"Are you a doctor?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "But I know plenty, and my sister… Never mind. Just lay down, take it easy, maybe I'll get you some ice and make you a little more comfortable."

Nick made a pillow out of Claire's jacket and moved it behind her head as she lay down.

"What about your sister?" Claire asked.

"Don't you worry about that," Nick said. "I don't want to cause any unnecessary stress now, you just relax."

"Thank you," Claire said. "You're a very kind person."

He forced himself to return her smile, but inside he was worried about her baby. A few years ago, his sister had suffered a miscarriage which began with similar symptoms. It had been a particularly rough pregnancy, and when the cramps had begun… He hoped Claire and her baby would be OK. The last thing she needed was a bullet wound.

He rose to his feet and headed towards the buffet table, where he saw an ice chest and some sodas. Mask was on alert.

"Where are you going?"

Greg, who had been sulking by the back wall of the stage, perked up at the sound of Masks' voice.

"I was just getting some ice," Nick answered calmly. "Claire Berkowitz is exhausted, she's in pain, I just want to help her feel more comfortable."

Mask looked at the pregnant woman, who indeed looked exactly as Nick had described. He tensed a moment, and then nodded. "I'll get the ice," he said.

"La!" Ali barked from the window. Mask turned and argued with him sharply. Ali seemed to bite his tongue and he looked away, angry. Whatever had happened, it seemed Mask had won the argument. He went over to the buffet table and lifted the ice chest and brought it up on the stage, walking over to Claire. He reached in and took out a few ice cubes, wrapping them in a few paper towels he had taken from the table. He felt her clammy forehead and gently dabbed the sweat away.

"Thank you," Claire whispered.

He stopped momentarily, then continued in his care. He handed her the ice wrapped in paper towels and she held it over her stomach. He pushed the hair away from her eyes and looked at her a moment.

"Are you thirsty?" he asked.

"I'm a little… parched, actually," she said. She had been afraid to ask for water before. Her plan had been to remain as inconspicuous as possible, and maybe avoid being the next one shot. But if he was offering…

Mask reached into the ice chest and pulled out a bottle of cold water, handing it to her. She propped herself up again and leaned against the wall, gratefully taking the water.

"Why are you doing this?"

Mask recognized the Texan accent as if he had known it all his life. "Mr. Stokes," he said slowly. "A woman is in pain. It is good charity to try and ease that suffering."

"No," Nick said, kneeling down next to Mask. "I mean… why are you doing _this_." He gestured at the room filled with hostages.

"There are some things that you will never understand," Mask replied quietly.

"You're not like him," Nick said. "You're not like Ali. I've seen it in the way you argue. I've seen it in the way you treat the women and children. You didn't want to keep Claire as a hostage any more than I did. But you follow his orders anyway. If it weren't for your sporadic protests, I'd say you followed them blindly. But you're not blind. I know that."

"You speak daringly, Mr. Stokes," Mask said as he eyed Claire's stomach. "I would hold your tongue if I were you."

But he persisted. "Please," he said. "I know you're different. I know you're just grieving. You didn't want all this. You didn't want more violence."

"Mr. Stokes, I have been grieving my whole life," Mask told him evenly. "The only time I ever really stopped was when I met my wife." He looked up at Nick. "Are you married?" Slowly, Nick shook his head. "Then you do not know what it's like. You do not know the warmth she brings to your dark world, when you thought you'd never see the sun again. To have someone to come home to, to hold, to call your own, and to belong to someone. To love someone so completely that you forget where you end and she begins. So when she leaves, you feel like someone took a cleaver and chopped you straight down the middle, in two halves, and stole the half of you which held your heart. You're nothing but a right arm and leg, a lung, and half a brain. And then, it's not just dark, Mr. Stokes. It's silent, too. No music plays in the hell I'm in. Not since the darkness swallowed the sound of her voice."

Nick had finally run out of words. He had run out of tactics. He had run out of energy. "You're Farah Ibrahim's husband, aren't you?" he whispered.

Mask did not reply. He simply continued to tend to Claire. Nick rose to his feet and looked at his watch. "It's 3:40, Mr. Ibrahim," he said. "So tell me. Do you know whose wife you're going to kill in the next twenty minutes?"

Mask looked up at him sharply, fury flaring in his eyes. "I have never killed a woman."

"Ali did," Nick said. "He's killed three."

Mask quivered as he swallowed. "In a war, there are casualties."

"Is that what he told you?"

Mask didn't reply.

"You don't want this," Nick said. "You don't want this, Mr. Ibrahim. I know you don't."

"I would be very careful if I were you, Mr. Stokes," Mask warned him again. "You have already caused enough trouble as it is. I warn you that one more step out of line, and you will be next."

"I don't plan on dying today," Nick said bravely.

"Well then I'm sorry to interfere with your plans," Mask said. He rose to his feet too and looked down at the ice chest. "I'll leave this here, if people want drinks."

"What are you going to do with the bodies?" Nick asked, looking at Isabella's corpse. He could still smell her perfume, mingled with the stench of cigarettes and gunpowder and putrefaction.

Mask followed his gaze. "We will leave them," he said. "As the Israeli army leaves their carcasses lying in the streets."

And with that, he got up and walked off the stage. 


	13. Whose Blood is Reddest

**_Author's Note:_** I've been really stressing over the season finale next week (eek!) and I am so worried, my friends make fun of me because I keep bringing it up in irrelevant conversation. Anyways, about this chapter: It's a little short, and I'm sorry but the next one's even shorter, but I promise we're nearing the good stuff. I apologize for the racial slurs. I hate them as much as the next person. I've run into my second rut in writing this story, but no fear because I tend to be quite good at extricating myself from these things. Also, I absolutely _adore_ Merchant of Venice and I just had to write a paper all about Shylock. It's one of my favorite Shakespeare plays, well, that and Much Ado About Nothing so I couldn't get away without quoting it _at least_ once (I end up quoting it twice in this chapter). The joys of being an English/Drama double major is you get to read a _lot _of Shakespeare.

And a thank you to Kegel, for being the only person commiserated with me and who didn't tell me to shut up when I rambled about how worried I was (am!) about the season finale.

And a shout-out to PisceanPal23 for having read a book that is on my list of resources/inspirations for this story (Elie Weisel's "Night"). Bravo!

* * *

_"Every murder is an abominable act, but the act before us is more abominable sevenfold, because not only has the accused not expressed regret or sorrow, but he also seeks to show that he is at peace with himself over the act that he perpetrated. He who so calmly cuts short another's life, only proves the depth of wretchedness to which his values have fallen, and thus he does not merit any regard whatsoever, except pity, because he has lost his humanity."_

**Judge presiding over the trial of Yigal Amir, responsible for the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin**

* * *

When the phone went dead, Sara's heart plummeted from her throat into the pit of her stomach and she was gripped with violent nausea. She folded her arms around her stomach, trying to quell the pains, but she felt like someone was putting a noose around her neck and was about to kick the chair out from under her. 

A hand discreetly slipped its way into hers, and they interlaced fingers. She looked up to see Grissom fixing her with one of his hard stares. She wanted to cry. She wanted to talk to Nick. She wanted to know if Greg was alright, if Greg had heard what she'd wanted to tell him. She wanted to call back, she wanted to grab a gun and burst into the room and shoot everyone with a weapon and pull her boys close and never let them out of her sight ever again.

Her boys… Sara wasn't a possessive person, and Nick and Greg could always hold their own in any situation, but being a woman in a man's world, she often did consider any man she got close to, whether romantically or otherwise, to be in her charge. When they earned her fondness, she would joke with them. When fondness grew to respect, she would stand up for them. And when respect grew to love, she would go through hell and high water to keep them safe.

And it wasn't just Nick and Greg, but all her friends, her boys, that she would move mountains for. And Catherine, too. She laughed quietly to herself. In her mind, she had lumped Catherine into the category of "her boys." Because while Catherine had clear feminine characteristics, she could definitely give even the ballsiest man a run for his money.

"It's good to see you smile again," Grissom said quietly.

Sara blinked at him. She had forgotten where she was for a moment. "I was thinking about Catherine," she told him.

"Well, I can understand why she would make you laugh…" Grissom said sarcastically with a confused frown.

Sara shook her head. "Never mind," she told him.

"Look," Brass said from behind them both. "Greg just had to hang up the phone, Sara, we haven't heard any more gunshots, he and Nick are probably both fine." He looked down at his phone and opened it, turning away from Grissom and Sara. "Brass… What? Slow down, Sophia, you're not making any sense now… Three suspects? Catherine and Warrick, wait, what?... They did _what_ to Catherine?! Son of a bitch… OK. Yeah. I get it, I'll be right over, and I'm bringing Sara with me."

He hung up and Sara blinked at him. "We have suspects?"

He smirked back at her, feeling hopeful for the first time all night. "We have suspects." He looked at Grissom. "You coming?"

Grissom looked at the phones and Agent Ripley, who was arguing with Steve and shook his head. "I'm going to stay here," he said, "and see if anything happens."

Brass looked at his watch. "Well…" he said. "It's 3:20. It'll take us half an hour to get to the lab. So call us, if you hear anything."

Grissom nodded. "I'll keep you posted."

* * *

"So let me get this straight," Sofia said, leaning back in her chair. "You three were out at three in the morning to beat up people who refused to buy you booze?" 

"Hey, I'm not talkin' 'til I get a lawyer up in here, yo," said the kid, folding his arms.

"Derrick, answer the damn question," his father snapped. He then addressed Sofia. "I'm sorry he's being so insolent, he's not always like this." He looked back to his son. "I can't believe you were trying to get beer, you're sixteen!"

He rolled his eyes. "OK, fine, I was trying to score some, whatever."

"Judging by the marijuana we found on your person, you scored a lot more than just beer," Sofia said. "That's a class E felony, and a five thousand dollar fine, or up to four years in prison."

"And we'll pay it," Derrick's father said quickly. "We know he broke the law, but her doesn't need any jail time—"

"And he and his friends assaulted an officer," Sofia added.

Derrick's father sighed. "We'll pay the fine," he said. "Whatever it takes. I can afford it." The boy scoffed.

Sofia narrowed his eyes at him as Catherine stepped into the room, holding a swab. Sofia glanced at her, then back at the boy. "We're going to need your finger prints and a sample of your DNA."

"What is this for?" his father demanded, suddenly on the defensive. "We admitted to it, we said we'd cooperate and pay the fine, what do you need his DNA for?"

"Your son is a suspect in an ongoing murder investigation," Sofia explained.

The father leaned back in his chair, suddenly cold. "OK," he said. "Now, I _do_ want a lawyer."

* * *

Brass watched Jason Baker intently. The boy looked stubborn as he sat with his father, who was also his lawyer, and neither one wanted to cooperate. 

"My son was operating under the leadership of Derrick Letman," the father was saying. "He was pressured into joining them and forced to smoke marijuana, which is why you'll find it in his system."

"Even for a lawyer," Brass said, "you have to realize I wouldn't believe that story."

The door opened and Brass looked over his shoulder to see Sara standing there, a vacant expression on her features as she flipped the finger printing cards in her hands. Brass smiled at her, but she didn't return it. When he turned back to the lawyer and his son, his face was stern again. "We'll need your fingerprints and DNA," he said.

"On a possession charge?!" The lawyer was outraged. "No, and the marijuana wasn't even _on_ Jason."

"Based on your son's shoes, and the shoes of his two friends, you're all suspects in a homicide investigation," Brass explained. "Now, open wide for the nice lady."  
Jason's mouth remained stoutly shut, but he was eying Sara with curiosity and something else in his eye that Brass didn't quite like. His jaw clenched as he spoke evenly. "Mr. Baker, I assume you taught your son that the proper way to look at a lady is to look her in the _eyes_, and not anywhere south of there."

Sara was startled by this and she looked at Brass, her eyes as smooth as glass. She then looked back at the boy, completely unfazed.

Jason cracked an amused and twisted smile as he shrugged. "Well what can I say, when I'm sitting down and she's standing up, our eyes aren't exactly level with each other, are they Captain Brass?"

"See, Mr. Baker," Brass said to his father, "that doesn't sound like the words of a peer-pressured patsy to me."

"Well what do you expect, he's still high," Mr. Baker replied angrily.

"Not that I have much experience in the matter, but that kind of attitude doesn't strike me as one under the influence of Mary Jane," Brass said, folding his arms.

The father was not amused. "Can we please do this in the morning, when he's sober again?"

"No." It was the first time Sara had spoken, and the singular word carried so much authority, even Brass wouldn't have dared question it.

"I urge you to give her your DNA now, Jason," Brass said to the kid. He looked at his father. "You don't want to violate a court order."

Jason looked at his father, who nodded and Jason opened his mouth, giving Sara a suggestive wink, which she dutifully ignored. She swabbed his mouth and then pushed a fingerprint card over to him and began to ink his fingers. She looked up from her task only once, and that was to look at Brass, whose eyes she could feel on her like her own clothes. Their gaze had met for a moment or so, until Sara had finally looked away again and continued in printing the suspect.

He was concerned for her. She had barely said two sentences since talking to Greg on the phone, and now simply being in her presence was like visiting Antarctica in the winter, frozen and surreal, and devoid of the sun. The silent ride back to the lab had been bad enough, but even now her presence was imposing, and it unnerved him gravely.

She knew that he was worried, but she also knew he had no reason to be. She had simply stopped talking because she had run out of things to say. The only thing that mattered was solving the case so she could save the people inside that community center, whether that included Nick and Greg or not.

She had finally done what Grissom had wanted of her all along. She had shed her emotional involvement like an unneeded coat and prepared herself to face the cold winter alone. Now she just needed to get it done.

And even though this was probably for the better, this fact scared Sara more than anything else.

* * *

Sofia entered the last interrogation room to see the kid sitting in a chair. He seemed disappointed somewhat, his iPod plugged into his ears and his eyes looked far away. She slowly took her seat and looked at him for a long time. 

"Where're your parents?"

"They don't care," he said, trying to sound calm. "I tried to tell you that when you called them. You left a message on the machine, I'm guessing? I can tell you where they are, where they are right now. They're on a cruise in Barbados. Would you believe they didn't even tell me they were leaving? I came home from baseball practice today and all I got was a note on the fridge. 'Bye Trevor, going to Barbados, see you in two weeks after the cruise!' Is that anyway to say goodbye to your son?"

Sofia cocked an eyebrow. "Are you trying to say that neglect drove you to drugs?"

The kid shrugged, looking dejected. "People have turned to them for less, haven't they?"

Sofia slid a photograph of Farah Ibrahim across the table. "Did it drive you to murder?"

The kid jumped out of his chair and backed up against the wall. "Jesus, ma'am!" he exclaimed. "Don't show me that shit, that shit is gross!"

Sofia pulled the photos back and glanced down at them. "Does it startle you, seeing a dead body?"

The kid blinked at her before he started chortling lightly. The quiet chuckles turned into loud laughter until he was nearly doubled over with fits over something he apparently found to be _very_ hilarious. When he finally calmed down he straightened and shook his head at Sofia, a small smile on his features. "I don't care about dead bodies," he said. "I just don't like seeing sand monkeys like that, dead or alive."

Sofia focused on keeping her breaths even and regular as she looked at the photos, then up at the kid in front of her. "Mr. Savage, I think you're going to want a lawyer."

* * *

Greg dug deep in the ice chest and pulled out a soda, not caring particularly about the brand of it. He just needed something to wash the metallic taste out of his mouth. No matter what he did, he couldn't seem to rid himself of the blood that seemed to linger on his taste buds. It opened with a hiss and he held the can to his lips. It was cold and he relished it momentarily before gulping down the insides. Afterwards, he held the can against his now swollen cheek where Ali had pistol whipped him earlier. He smiled at the welcome numbness it brought before leaning against the wall and sliding down. 

"Feels good, doesn't it?" came a voice from beside him. "I didn't even realize I was thirsty until I gulped down a soda myself."

Greg turned to see Amira Osman smiling broadly at him. "Yeah," he said. "It's refreshing."

"Hassan always has to be taking care of someone," Amira explained quietly. "He is hospitable by nature." Greg looked at her questioningly and she suddenly seemed to remember something. "He, uh… He is my brother in law. Hassan." She nodded at Mask and Greg's jaw dropped.

"He's Farah's husband?!" Greg hissed, as though he'd just heard the juiciest piece of gossip in the world. Amira closed her eyes and nodded. "Wow…" He looked at Amira. "So… Why is he doing this? He has kids, doesn't he? Why does he have to risk his life… for this?"

A soft smile tugged at the corner of Amira's mouth. "If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. The villainy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction."

Greg let out a low sigh. "That sounds so familiar. If only I read more books."

"Or watched more plays," Amira said.

Greg looked at her and smirked. "Shylock," he said. "Merchant of Venice?"

"You are clever after all," Amira laughed.

"You ever doubted it?" Greg jested, but then rolled his eyes. "Nah, actually, I think Griss— my supervisor once spouted it to me. You know, he would like you. Quoting Shakespeare like you do."

Amira sighed. "Well, you know, Shylock was a Jew. One might call my quoting of him… ironic, in some respects. Considering our situation."

"Yeah, I didn't know that," Greg admitted. "See, Grissom would have known. He's a walking encyclopedia. Knows everything there is to know about everything." Greg quavered slightly as he hesitated, and when he spoke again, he sounded mournful. "For instance… he would… He would know what to do right now. He would handle it well. Better than I am, anyway."

Amira smiled warmly at him. "You are doing very well indeed, Mr. Sanders," she assured him.

"He wouldn't shoot you, would he?" Greg asked, suddenly changing the subject. "Mas—I mean, Hassan. Hassan wouldn't shoot you, right, because you're Farah's sister. You share half her genes. You're the aunt of his children. He wouldn't shoot you." By the end of this, Greg sounded as though he had convinced himself of this.

But Amira folded her arms and shook her head. "I don't know anymore, to be honest. He's gone cold and when I try to touch him, he turns my fingers to ice. He is not the man I knew before my sister died… But I also know that he is tired of death. He has seen it his whole life. I don't doubt that he is willing to die tonight."

"He's not a terrorist," Greg whispered.

"You don't think so?" Amira asked, curious.

"No, I don't," Greg replied. "A terrorist… Well, I mean, there are all kinds of them, aren't there? Like suicide bombers and such… they do things because they're told to by men in higher positions than they are, brainwashers, and they do it for the greater good, or what they _think_ is the greater good, because they think they'll get their seventy-two virgins and severely damage what they think is the enemy. They do it out of hate, or out of duty, or out of blind loyalty. And then there's the ones like Ali, who cause terror to get their point across, to be specific. They tend to talk more, as opposed to just rushing in and blowing things up. They want people to _know_ who they are and what they're doing. But they also do it out of hate, and duty. They do it because they feel it needs to be done, because they crave vengeance on the entities they think are trying to destroy or undermine them. Either way, all of them have one thing in common and that is that they hate their targets so much they are willing to die if they take out a good number of innocents with them. Your brother-in-law isn't like that. He has a family. He has children. He needs to care for people…" Greg licked his chapped lips. "No. No, I think you're wrong, I think he doesn't want to die tonight. I just think he wants his wife back."

Greg tensed as Ali strode forward and up onto the stage. He looked around him with contempt carved into his stony features. He grabbed a nearby hostage, someone Greg didn't know, a young man who was clutching a Star of David in his hands desperately.

A girl reached out to him and cried out, "Kyle, no!"

But Ali did not heed her cries as he threw the boy down, took out his gun, and without another word bored a hole through his skull.

Everyone looked up at the noise the gun had made, but no one seemed to do more than start a little at the loud sound. They had been desensitized to the noise as the hours progressed, and had even learned to block out the occasional sobbing or screams of denial from the other hostages who may have known whoever had been sacrificed for the cause.

In this instance, the mourner was a young twenty-something thing who found herself wracked with grief at the sight of her friend's brains all over the floor. She looked up at Ali, with fury burning her fair features. He looked down at her nonchalantly, as though he was barely worth the minute attention he was showing her. She glared at him before spitting on his shoes.

"I thought Islam preached _peace_," she hissed at him, the tears streaking down his face. "I thought that _murder_ wasn't one of the five pillars of Islam! The profession of faith, ritual prayer, charity, fasting and the pilgrimage don't seem to leave _room_ for slaughtering innocents! What about the Zakat? What about mercy? Where are _these_ teachings in you're radical beliefs?!"

He looked down at his shoes, the white frothy saliva trickling down the cool leather, then up at her face before turning away from her again. He stopped when she threw her shoe at his back, but he didn't turn around.

"You're all the _same_," she sobbed. "I thought that you could be different, but you're all the _same_! Empty inside! Tearing everyone else to shreds because you can no longer _feel anything at all_! You… You brown piece of _shit_!"

He went frigid at that phrase and looked down at his feet. Greg wished he could see his eyes when he spoke. "Mislike me not for my complexion," he whispered. "The shadowed livery of the burnished sun, to whom I am a neighbor and near bred. Bring me the fairest creature northward born, where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles, and let us make incision for your love, to prove whose blood is reddest."

She quaked on the spot with rage and grief as she stared at him in disbelief, but he did not turn to face her again. Instead, he simply walked away towards the microphone and lifted it to his lips again as he addressed his attentive audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said calmly. "Murderer," he added. "I appeal to your own survival instincts. It is now 4:00AM. You just witnessed the fifth hourly death, and now, I am too tired of this. I'm sorry, but impatience is a _terrible_ flaw, and I cannot wait until eleven o'clock for the man I want to admit his crime. So I propose this last chance, for all of you. Either the man I want confesses _now_, or—" Ali drew his gun, aimed it at the sobbing girl, and fired three shots into her body before it fell to the floor. "I'll be killing someone every five _minutes_."


	14. Killers

_**Author's Note:**_ OK, well, my fears still haven't been put to rest regarding the finale, but it's good to see there are folks to commiserate with. So I just joined the tech crew for a show here at the U and it will make me VERY busy this week, which means updates may be scarcer, but I'll try to keep on schedule. Also, I'm at the same place writing wise as I was on Thursday, but hopefully there won't be much of a delay there. If I find myself far behind, I'll space my updates (sorry folks!) but I assure you that everything will get written and posted, and the longest I'll make you wait for a chapter is 48 hours. I have a clear view of what I'm doing, I just need to untangle the spiderwebs in my head and also find the time between Marisol (the play I'm in), Touch (the play I'm crewing), my classes and failing English to write it down (yes, I do believe I have a 2.0 in English, but that's just TMI).

**Arabic Lesson of the Day:** "Sharmoota" is an insult used against women, and most closely corresponds with the English "whore" or "bitch." "Ukthi" is "my sister" and "Akhi" (used previously, in "War Zone" if I recall right) is "my brother." OK, there you go.

* * *

_"I guess this is what you call a crisis, an emotional meeting between two minds. No one wins except the people on the outside. But we both know where this is heading, we both know how this will end. In bitter tears, forgotten years, and centuries of regret."_

**Steven Salisbury, "Crisis" from the album _Letters From Alfred Brown, _go to**** MySpace-Dot-Com/StevenSalisbury to hear the song.  
**

* * *

Warrick was sitting outside the interrogation rooms, breathing into his cupped hands. His head hurt, and he felt sea sick. He wished he could sober up faster. He was no use to the team drunk and he despised that fact. He wanted to be in there, with those suspects, collecting evidence like Sara and Catherine. He wanted to be doing _something_, anything other than sitting there like a useless idiot. 

"Relax," came a voice from beside him. "Cath and Sara are good at what they do, they'll compare the evidence and come up with something, and they wouldn't have done it any faster with you on it with them. I mean, come on, 'Rick, let's face it, the women are the ones who really keep this world turning, aren't they? Us men are just along for the ride, hoping to God to learn something from their brilliance."

"Since when did you become a feminist, Nick?" Warrick sighed.

"Since you started having schizophrenic delusions," Nick returned. "You don't look too good, buddy."

"I'm drunk," Warrick said with an angry laugh. "And I'm useless. I failed you, Nick. You and Greg both, and all because I just couldn't handle it." He looked up at his hallucination. "I'm sorry I didn't… _do_ anything. To help you."

"You called Sofia," Nick pointed out. "In fact, if you hadn't gone to that bar, then Catherine would have never gone to pick you up, and those punks would have never attacked her. So in a way, Warrick, you played the most important role in this. You found the suspects."

"So what are you really?" Warrick asked. "The embodiment of my sense of reason?"

"Nah," Nick said with a grin. "Nah, Warrick, your reason abandoned you _ages_ ago, on about your third shot I'd say. No, I'm just something you thought up to keep yourself company. I'm an embodiment of denial, because you just want to think that I took the night off, that I'm really playing hookie or in bed with the flu or sleeping with the _finest_ chick, and that's why I'm not with you right now. I look like this…" He gestured at his healthy body and his vibrant eyes. "Because you don't want to see me looking like _this_." His image changed, and a wound materialized in the middle of his forehead, a black dot growing and pouring out crimson as it dripped down the bridge of his nose and a drop of it clung desperately to the end of it before Nick wiped it away like a bead of sweat.

Warrick looked away from him sharply, clenching his jaw so tight he thought it would never open again. He spoke through gritted teeth. "Stop it."

"No," Nick said, causing Warrick to turn to this talking corpse, stunned.

"What?"

"Because you _need_ to see me like this, Warrick," he replied, the blood still gushing from his wound. "You _need_ to think about what you'll do if this is what I look like the next time you see me. So you don't cry, or vomit, or break down. So you can keep up the pretense that you're a tough guy. Leave the crying to Catherine and Sara, you know. You can take out your frustrations later, by beating the shit out of a punching bag, or going to a firing range. You ever wonder why women are less violent than men? It's because they express themselves. We don't. Our emotions are channeled through our violence. Because that's just how we are. So while we're beating up our pillows, or heaven forbid someone who doesn't deserve it, the women go about cleaning up after us, making sure our worlds keep spinning. Have you called Tina yet?"

"You know damn well I haven't," Warrick snapped.

The blood began to drip into Nick's eyes and he wiped it away, smearing it all over his jeans with his hands as though he didn't care about the stains it left behind. "Or what if it wasn't just me," Nick said. "What if it was Greg, too? Or… or _instead_. What if instead of my face, you stared into his dead eyes? You couldn't handle that either."

"You won't get shot," Warrick whispered, his voice quaking. "You're too smart to get your ass shot. You'll get out of this, Nick. You and Greg both."

"And if we don't?"

Warrick didn't answer.

Nick sighed and the wound in his head healed miraculously. "You're going to have to face it sometime, Warrick. Because I may only be a figment of your imagination, but I can tell you this. People have died tonight. And even when this night ends, it's still going to be far from over. You know that."

Warrick rubbed his eyes with his hand. "Go away, Nick," he said. "Please."

"Talking to yourself again?"

Warrick looked up at Catherine who was standing in front of him with arms folded, her gaze hardened by a long night's work. He looked to his side and saw that his delusion had vanished again, back into the depths of his imagination, and he was glad for it. He turned once more to Catherine and shrugged.

"I'm tired, Catherine," he said.

"Someone should take you home," she whispered.

"I'd rather stay here," he replied.

"There's nothing you can do here," Catherine told him.

"I know," Warrick said. "And I hate that." He looked at her hands. "What have you got there?"

Catherine looked down at the files she held. "The results for the DNA and fingerprint comparison with our suspects."

"And?"

She smiled sadly. "It's a match. The semen in her stomach belonged to Derrick Letman. We found hairs from Jason Baker, and the prints on the purse matched Trevor Savage."

"Wasn't there a third… I mean, a fourth attacker?" Warrick asked, trying to sift through the shifting fogs in his head.

"Yeah, and none of the boys are talking," Catherine said. "They claim there was no forth participant, just the three of them. Hell, Savage is bragging that he did the whole thing by himself. It's disgusting."

"But it was Letman's semen in her stomach?" Warrick asked. "Sounds to me like he was the brains behind this operation."

But Catherine was shaking his head. "No, I think it's Savage. He's got a complex or something, a, uh, a very negative image of Arabs. Even Letman claims it was Savage's idea, Letman just took the lead."

"And what's Baker saying?" Warrick asked.

"Aw, he's claiming he never touched her," Catherine said. "Of course it's only convenient for him that all we found was a hair. As of yet, his lawyer who also happens to be his father claims we can't charge him with more than an accessory."

"Great," Warrick said. "And now what are we going to do with all this information? We call, they say they're going to kill somebody."

Catherine sighed. "I don't know, Warrick, but we did what they told us to do. Grissom's gotten a hold of Nick on his cell phone once or twice, Brass told me, so maybe—"

"Grissom talked to Nick?" Warrick felt immediately sober. "What? When? Why didn't he tell me?"

"You were drunk," Catherine said with a shrug. "And he was… busy."

"I told him to call me with updates," Warrick said.

"Your _phone_ was stolen!" Catherine exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air. "I mean… What the _hell_, Warrick! Did you even know that Derrick Letman was the one who stole your phone?"

Warrick's head began to throb as he buried his face in his hands. He didn't want to talk to Catherine anymore. "So… what, are you going to call Nick and pray that he can relay the information? How the _fuck_ is he going to do that, Catherine, without getting himself _shot_?"

Catherine looked away from Warrick, examining an ant as it crawled across the floor. She wondered where the other ants were. Where there's one ant, there's a whole colony following the scent trail it left behind. She seemed to recall that lesson from her childhood, but could easily remember hearing Grissom repeating the information in her ear at some point in their career together. Grissom… He hadn't left the scene at all, always by the van, with the negotiators, by the phones… He probably wanted to be the first to know if/when Nick or Greg got shot, so he could tell his team, so the bad news could come from a friend instead of a callous FBI agent.

As if she summoned him with her thoughts, her phone sang out loudly from her pocket and she quickly reached down to answer when she stopped suddenly. She had noticed the subtle difference in Warrick's composure. He was making absolutely no noise, and she couldn't see his face, but she saw his back move up and down in staccato motions as he soundlessly and secretly dealt with his demons.

She held the ringing phone as it vibrated in her hand, staring at her friend, drunk with helpless fear as he tried to drown it with the whiskey and tequila which mingled on his breath. She reached out a gentle hand and rested it on his back, which only seemed to worsen matters as he let out the smallest, breathless gasp that betrayed his true emotions. She glanced at her phone again which continued to vie for her attention like a whining child calling for its mother. With a sad smile at Warrick, she held the phone up to her ear.

Her voice sounded softly over the wire. "Willows."

"Four shots have been fired in the past five minutes," Grissom was saying quickly. "Tell me you have something we can use."

"Four shots?!" Catherine exclaimed in disbelief. "But Grissom, what good will the evidence—"

"_Tell_ me that you _have_ something Catherine, I don't have _time_ for incredulity!" Grissom barked.

Catherine swallowed and for the first time realized that her throat was dry and constricted. "Uh… you heard that I pulled in—"

"Don't tell me what I already know, Catherine, tell me the new information you have for me," Grissom interrupted. "Can you tie any of them to the murder? Any of them at all?"

"Yes," Catherine said firmly. "Yes, all three, all fucking three of them were there, but Grissom, we're still short one attacker!"

"It doesn't matter," Grissom said. "I'm calling them."

"But they said if you called again—"

"They just fired four shots in the span of five minutes, Catherine, at this point I don't think he's playing games anymore." Grissom sounded like he was beginning to panic. How peculiarly un-Grissom like.

Catherine suddenly heard a faint bang on the other end of the phone. She held her breath. "Grissom, was that—"

"No," Grissom sighed, sounding agitated. "Steve dropped his headset."

In the background, Catherine heard someone chirp, "Sorry!"

She rolled her eyes and willed her body to relax. "Shit, Grissom, I'm going to be jumping at banging sounds for the rest of my fucking life—" BANG! "What the _fuck_ was that?!"

At first, Grissom didn't reply right away, but then, "That… _was_… a gunshot."

* * *

Simon jumped to his feet the minute Ali shot the third person in five minutes. He had been an older man, in his mid to late forties probably, with graying hair. His wife, or the person Simon had assumed was his wife, was sobbing quietly to herself. 

"That's _enough_, man," Simon said sternly through gritted teeth. "Stop _killing_ these people! You want a killer? Then shoot _me_, alright, but no one else in this room has ever taken another person's life."

Nick saw Greg tense involuntarily at this statement, then focused on Simon again. He hoped Greg kept his contradictory thoughts to himself. Nick knew exactly what the lieutenant was doing: being a hero. And if anyone in the room was capable of it, it was him. A marine. A man who knew what he was doing in a time of crisis. Not Greg, and definitely not Nick.

Ali pointed his gun at Simon calmly. "You're asking to be next, my friend," he said coldly.

Nick felt someone squeezing his hand and looked down to see a desperate Claire, her eyes squeezed shut tight, the ice completely melted on a forehead drenched in sweat and cold water. When she opened her blue eyes again, they were terrified. Nick forced a smile and stroked the hair plastered to her forehead away from her eyes.

"You'll be OK, Mrs. Berkowitz," he whispered.

"Call me Claire."

"These people are not your enemy," Simon continued. "Why do you insist on picking fights with folks who got no beef with you?"

"You think because you are an amputee you can gain sympathy from me?" Ali spat. "You are a puppet of American propaganda, a walking, breathing instrument of manipulation and control."

"I am a proud member of the US Marine Corps," Simon whispered, his voice low and angry. "And while I may not agree with a lot of things that I've done for its government, I have never once lost faith in America. Because overall, we _are_ a damn good country, and we have our flaws like any other, but we've come so far in the measly two-hundred years we've been in existence, and dammit, I'm proud of that fact. I love my country _just_ as much as you love Palestine, and I am willing to die for it, _just_ like you. Do I think we're perfect? Not by a long shot, but we know how to come together in a crisis, and we know how to stand up for ourselves, and we sure as hell know the definition of 'family' and we're willing to fight for it. I am nobody's tool but my own, and I'm trained in nearly every form of combat you could name. If there weren't civilians at risk, you better believe I would have your ass in a sling by now. And if you think this is the first time I have put my life on the line for my comrades, you are mistaken, my friend. So do you really think I'm afraid of you?"

Ali clutched his gun firmly.

"Habibi, please," Amira begged in a soothing voice. "These people—"

"You _shut your mouth_, sharmoota!" Ali barked.

"No one talks to my wife that way," Kareem growled, standing by Amira's side.

Ali called to his men, and two of them pointed their guns at Kareem and Amira. "You traitors," he whispered. "Traitors to your faith and to your own family."

Tears were streaking down Amira's face as she clutched at her heart. "Please," she begged with Ali. "Please, I have already lost a sister and my best friend tonight, can't you understand that, Ali? She was all I had left, our parents are dead, and now she is too. I was grieving already before you and Hassan and your brainwashed followers barged into our place of peace and started massacring my friends. And so…" She fell to her knees, staring up at Ali with glowing brown eyes, magnified behind her tears. "I offer myself to you, and to Allah, as a sacrifice for peace."

Ali looked at Simon, and then at Amira. He barked another order to his men and three guns were aimed at Simon before Ali aimed his gun instead at Amira, his eyes narrow slits in his stony face. "Remember, Amira, that I have no qualms in killing you," he said evenly.

"I know that," Amira said bravely. "I am not asking _you _to shoot me." She looked past him, her eyes resting on Hassan. "I am asking _him_ to shoot me."

Ali frowned and glanced over his shoulder. He said something to Hassan in Arabic, and Hassan simply shrugged in reply. He turned back to Amira, shaking his head at her.

"You are a silly, silly girl, Amira Osman," he said quietly.

"You can kill me without question," Amira said softly. "Can you say the same about your brother? Is he devoted to the cause like you are?"

"How dare you make such accusations against your own kin," Ali hissed.

"He would never kill a woman," Amira said. "Least of all his own sister-in-law."

Slowly, Hassan reached up and took off his mask as he looked at Amira with pleading eyes. He said something to her soothingly in Arabic, called her "Ukhti."

She smiled at him and shook her head. "So you finally show yourself, my brother," she whispered. "Your true colors are revealed."

Ali cocked his gun. "I will silence you at last," he said. Amira steeled herself for what was to come and closed her eyes, the tears rolling silently down her cheeks.

"I trust in Allah," she whispered, "and Allah will take care of me."

"WAIT!"

The call had come from across the stage, from Noah, who looked desperate to do something, anything, to stop Ali from firing. Ali looked up suddenly and Amira's head spun around on her neck.

"Yes, Mr. Berkowitz?" Ali asked patiently.

Noah's jaw trembled as he wrung his clammy hands. "I… I… I did it. I killed Farah Ibrahim."


	15. The Cause

_**Author's Note:**_ Sorry for the cliffhanger. Actually, no I'm not. Anticipate the next chapter on Thursday after the most evil finale ever (which I will not have seen by then since dorm connection for CBS sucks and I'm holding out for HD online streaming). Anyways, now Thursday has TWO things for you to look forward to. Eek! I do believe this is the shortest A/N I have ever written in this story. R&R svp mes amis!

* * *

_"Gather together, O fighters of Karameh, Litani and Beirut, raise your voices aloud: we shall die, we shall die, so that Palestine shall live. Our blood is your atonement, O Jerusalem, and our souls are your defenders, O Palestine. We swear unto the holy martyrs: until victory!"_

**Statement issued by the student branch of Fatah, Palestinian Authority Chairman Yasser Arafat's faction of the PLO, in Nablus to commemorate Land Day. Karameh, Litani and Beirut were the sites of major battles between the Palestine Liberation Organization and Israeli forces. (Al-Ayyam, 29 March 1998)**

* * *

"Son of a bitch…" Simon muttered. 

A smile crept across Ali's face and he began to laugh, kicking Amira to the side and instead aiming his gun at Noah, whose eyes were shut tight as he shook madly on the spot, his knees knocking together with anxiety.

Nick felt the blood splatter into his eyes before he even heard the gunshot. The hand holding his squeezed the life out of him. He looked down at Claire Berkowitz as he felt her shuddering in his grip. She was breathing in short, sharp bursts as she looked down at her shattered abdomen and began to cry.

"No… No…" she was whimpering. "My baby… my…" She couldn't finish.

"Shit!" Nick exclaimed, quickly tearing off his shirt to try and stop the wounded woman from bleeding out. Her stomach was a mess of blood and amniotic fluids. The bullet had definitely pierced her womb.

"_CLAIRE_!"

Noah Berkowitz's tormented cry could have split atoms as he seemed to materialize by his wife's side instantaneously. She was wailing in grief and pain and while Nick tried in vain to do something, anything to help this poor woman, Noah was crying as he stroked his wife's wet hair.

"Claire Bear…" he whispered. "My Claire Bear, I'm here, baby…"

"Baby…" Claire gasped. "N-Noah, I l-lost the b-baby…"

"Don't speak, honey, everything will be OK…" But Noah didn't look like he believed his own words.

She reached up and left a smeared bloody hand print on his cheek, wiping his tears away with her thumb. "Don't let me see you cry, sweetheart…" she breathed. "Oh God, I love you so much it hurts." And hurt it did as she tensed with pain. "Oh _God_!"

"Claire Bear, I love you too…"

Nick wasn't a doctor; he had no idea what he was doing. But he tried anyway, because he was tired of sitting back and doing nothing. Did the bullet pierce the baby itself? Could it be saved? If it could, would it survive, being two months premature? Not without proper medical care, which they didn't have. They didn't have anything.

Nick hated his emotions. The ones he'd suppressed for this long chose the most irritating moment to surface. Elbow deep in Claire's blood and fluids was when he tensed up with frustrated fear and his tears fell like rain and added to the mess. Angry, he tried to wipe away his tears on his shoulder, but he only succeeded in smearing more blood across his face. He tried to blink his vision clear again, pressing his now blood-soaked shirt firmly against Claire's belly.

Soon, he saw a clean black shirt land on top of his and looked up to see Greg, his dark eyes sharp and focused as he stared at his friend in silence. Nick took the shirt and continued in his vain efforts, knowing it would do nothing in the long run. Claire probably wouldn't survive, and she would take her unborn child with her.

"Baby? _Baby_!" Noah's desperate cries alerted Nick and Greg to what they had both known was inevitable and both looked up to see Claire's dead stare looking up at the ceiling. Noah refused to let go of her hand as he held it against his heart, doubled over his wife's body as the agonizing grief rendered him little more than a blubbering madman, Orpheus trying in vain to rescue Eurydice from the wrong side of the River Styx.

Nick and Greg knew there was nothing either of them could say to the man as they sat back and watched. Nick's tears had mingled with the blood on his face, chest and arms and dried in twisted brown patterns like war paint.

Greg was staring down at his hands, stained maroon with Claire's rapidly clotting blood. He narrowed his eyes and wiped his hands on his jeans, trying desperately to feel clean of all the sin that was flooding over him. He felt Nick rise to his feet next to him but didn't look up.

"Are you fucking crazy?" Nick whispered to Ali. "Are you fucking _insane_?!" He knew it was a redundant question with an obvious answer, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. "You just shot a defenseless pregnant woman, slaughtered both her _and_ her child. That's low. That's… that's just _too_ low."

Ali's gun was lowered as he stared at Nick impassively. "I told you I knew who the killer was. And now, I extracted my revenge."

Hassan spat something out in Arabic, looking disgusted. Furious, Ali turned on him and snapped back loudly.

In the corner, the blonde teenage girl was sobbing loudly. Out of the original eleven, only Greg, Amira, Kareem, Noah, Eli Eberstark and this girl remained. Something inside him compelled Greg to learn her story, to ask her why she was here, to ask her about her family and her childhood and how she became the brave young lady she was today. He needed to know her name, even if she ended up being the next victim.

As Ali and Hassan argued, Greg crawled on over to the sobbing teenager and sat next to her.

"Hey," he said simply.

She jumped at his voice and looked up at him with terrified green eyes. "I… I never wanted to hurt anyone…" she whispered.

"What's your name, doll face?" Greg asked as kindly as possible.

She blinked her big green eyes at him. "S-Sarah," she replied.

A grin spread across Greg's face from ear to ear. "Sarah," he said. "That's a really pretty name. One of my very best friends is named Sara, you know."

She smiled back at him and nodded vigorously. "B-but I go by Lucy."

Greg cocked an eyebrow at her. "Is that a middle name…?"

She shrugged. "My last name is Ball. And there are so many Sarahs at my school, it makes things easier… It's kind of a joke, with my friends, b-b-because I can be loud and crazy, like Lucille Ball? Yeah, um, it's stupid…"

"So would you feel better if I called you Lucy then?" Greg asked kindly.

She closed her eyes, squeezing out tears as she nodded. "I am _so sorry_!" she sobbed.

Greg didn't understand this outburst of hers as she flung her arms around him desperately. Awkwardly, he patted her back. But he went frigid when he heard Nick yelling again.

"So are you going to let us go or what?" he demanded, drawing Ali out of the argument he was having with Hassan. Ali glared at him coldly.

"You will _stay_," he said.

"But you said if the killer confessed—"

"Noah Berkowitz!" Ali interrupted. But Noah didn't seem to hear him through his grief. "MURDERER!" Ali shouted.

This seemed to catch Noah's attention like a trout hooked on a fishing line and his back went rigid. Sobering up somewhat, he ever so gradually rose up onto his knees, and then onto his feet, his back facing Ali.

"What do you want from me?" he whispered, finally defeated. "Do you want to kill me?"

"_Ali, la_!" Hassan hissed furiously, marching up onto the stage.

Ali snapped furiously at Hassan in Arabic, which seemed to shut his brother up, but not without a begrudging glare. Ali turned once again to Noah Berkowitz.

"Turn around," Ali said, his voice a low rumble like thunder in the distance.

Slowly, Noah obliged, looking like a man being lined up in front of a firing squad.

"Ali!" Amira sobbed, struggling in her husbands arms to run over to the terrorist. "Ali, _no_! You have already killed his _wife_, his _family_, isn't that enough?"

Noah's chin rose up from his chest until he could look at Ali with cold black eyes, the darkness fully possessing him. He breathed slowly and deeply, his bloody and tearstained cheeks as white as snow, making his black eyes seem even darker in contrast.

Ali waved his gun at him. "I want to hear you say it _Jew_," he said carefully. "I want to hear you say how much you _loathe_ me for taking away your family. I want to hear you curse my name, tell me that I am wicked and backwards and wrong, call me a _dirty Arab_."

But Noah's breaths were deep and calm. "You are wicked," he said. "And you are callous. And you are wrong. Wrong in so many ways. But for the _life_ of me, Mr. Ibrahim, I will _never_ call you by _any_ racial slur. It is just… Not in my nature."

"Say it, or I'll _shoot_ you!" Ali shouted angrily.

But Noah remained firm. "Go ahead," he said. "You've stolen the only thing I had to live for anyway."

"Ali!"

"_La_, Amira!" Ali's eyes were closed as he put his free hand to his temple, obviously barely containing a migraine, but he turned towards her and that was his gravest mistake.

The gun went off. She gasped and fell backwards into her husband's arms. For a moment, Ali's eyes were wide, but he recovered quickly and started shouting to his men in Arabic. Two of them rushed to Amira's aid while the others simply scurried around like ants.

"You _bastard_…" Hassan hissed as he shook his head at Ali in disgust. He took out his gun and aimed it at Ali. "You are _not_ my brother."

But the instant Hassan turned his firearm on Ali, about six more were turned on him, Ali's loyal army, ready to kill—and die—for the cause.

"The cause…" Hassan spat out, shaking his head, slowly withdrawing his gun and placing it back in his holster. He knew he wouldn't last against six men aiming at him. His brother would win, and he didn't need that. "The bloody cause… Tell me, Ali, do you even _remember_ our cause?"

"To avenge the deaths of our brothers and sisters," Ali replied, offended he had even asked. "To teach the Jews that we won't take it anymore— to teach the American pigs a lesson in agony. To tell the world that Palestine is our—"

"_THIS IS NOT OUR CAUSE!_" Hassan roared furiously. This stunned Ali into silence. Hassan looked at Amira and a tear streaked down his cheek as he shook his head. He looked back at Ali. "You do not understand, my brother. I never wanted this. This was _never_ about the _homeland_. This was about _me_. This was about _Farah_. All I wanted was justice for my wife's death, and… And at the words of Sara Sidle, I'm not even sure I achieved that tonight."

"He admitted it!" Ali cried out. "Didn't you hear him?"

"_You were going to kill my sister-in-law_!" Hassan exclaimed incredulously. "Hell, you probably just _did_!" He strode over to the phone on the wall.

"Where are you going?" Ali yelled, the authority back in his voice.

"To call the police," Hassan replied. "We need an ambulance. Amira is the aunt of my children, Ali. Farah's _only sister_. And you _killed_ her." He picked up the phone. Ali fired another shot. Hassan froze as he stared at the bullet hole through the wall where the phone had been, the receiver dangling uselessly as the plastic smoldered and the numbers melted. The destroyed phone sparked slightly. He looked over his shoulder at Ali, who was aiming the gun now at him.

"Do not make me shoot you, brother," he said. "Because I will."

Hassan let out a desperate laugh and shook his head. "I know," he said. "I know you will. All for the cause, right?"

Ali seemed to relax a bit. He gestured at Noah with his gun. "Would you like the honors, or should I?"

Hassan closed his eyes and sighed, shaking his head. "Please," he whispered. "Just… Just please, Ali."

"I'll take that as a, 'Go ahead, brother, be my guest,'" Ali said. He aimed his gun at Noah.

"Are you ready to die, Noah Berkowitz?" he said quietly. "Or are you ready to show me how you _really_ feel about Arabs?"

Noah closed his eyes and swallowed. "Just fucking shoot me," he said.

And Ali was about to, were it not for the piercing scream that came from the blonde girl Greg was trying to contain.

"Lucy!" Greg hissed desperately. "_Lucy_!"

But she was wailing and shaking her head, her blonde hair flying everywhere. The words that escaped her lips were difficult to decipher through her hysterically high-pitched voice, let alone comprehend.

"No!" Lucy shrieked. "No, _I_ did it, _I_ did it, it was _me_, OK, so just— just leave _everyone_ alone because _he didn't do it, I did_!"

Hassan and Ali exchanged looks before staring at the girl. Hassan's hands clenched into fists and opened again.

"What?" he gasped, his gun falling from his grasp and to the floor.

She looked at Hassan with tear-filled green eyes. "Look," she said with a sniff. "Look, I never wanted to kill anyone, I swear it, but Derrick and them, they were just messing around with her, I never expected it to get that far, OK, so I'm _sorry_! If I'd have known they were going to get crazy about it, if I'd have known Trevor was such a _fucking _nutcase, I would never have suggested it in the first place, but she was there, and she was alone, and it was dark and no one was around and we were just going to give her a hard time, you know? So I just wanted to roll up to the curb, offer her a ride and maybe swipe her purse, you know, but they went too far, alright? She just ignored us, and so they got pissed off and they stopped the car and the next thing I knew, Derrick and Jason were jumping out and then Trevor pulls out this fucking _baseball_ bat and… Jesus Christ, I had no idea! So I tried to stop them, or something, but then it was just crazy, and she— she kicked me hard in the shins and it hurt and I got a little mad and— and I don't really remember what happened next, it was all crazy, and there was Trevor shouting the craziest shit at her, doing some insane things, giving Derrick wild ideas… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, OK, and… and Jason and I held her down and… Oh God, the things they did to her with that baseball bat…" She dissolved in a fit of tears, just repeating her desperate apology. "I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, oh my God…"

She fell to her knees at Hassan's feet and totally fell to pieces before him. He stared at her incredulously, his mouth open.

Nick couldn't believe what he was seeing either. This whole night he had operated under the assumption that the killer wasn't in that room, and yet there she was, confessing everything. True, she was only one of four, but it was one more than Nick had guessed would be there.

"Well?" Ali said to Hassan. "Are you going to shoot her or what?"

Hassan looked up at Ali and stared at him in bafflement. "Shoot her? _Shoot_ her? Fuck, Ali, I wanted to let her _go_ a few hours ago! She's a child. A _child_!"

"She killed your wife," Ali said calmly. "She killed Farah."

"And a moment ago you said the same thing about Noah Berkowitz," Hassan replied.

"She has details," Ali said. "She has proof."

"Proof that corroborates what the police have been telling us all along…" Hassan whispered, staring down at the broken girl. "There were multiple attackers."

Ali walked over to his brother and bent down, picking up Hassan's gun and handing it to him. "So? This is what you wanted isn't it? This is _your_ cause. Isn't it?"

Hassan stared at the gun in his hand and then down at the weeping girl. "I don't know anymore, Ali," he said.

"Don't."

Both Ali and Hassan looked up at the single, monosyllabic word that held the life of a young girl in its sound. It was Nick Stokes who had been brave enough to speak now, tired of notions of heroes and villains, tired of good and evil, and most of all tired of being in this community center waiting to die. But regardless of everything he was tired of, he did not want to watch a teenage girl die, murderer or not. Not again.

"I beg your pardon?" Ali said. "You do not have a say in this."

"I think he should," Simon Rivers said. "I mean, he's a cop, right?"

"No, I'm not," Nick said to Simon. "But I am a CSI. I told you Sara would find these things, I told you… I told you everything. _Sara_ told you everything. She told you there were multiple attackers. I'll bet if you call her up now, they'll have more information for you, and if you tell her what this girl said, they can find her friends, and they can bring them to justice, OK? But you don't have to kill her. She's just one girl. Hassan… You don't murder sobbing teenage girls, do you?"

Hassan looked sadly to the bleeding Amira by the wall, who was fighting to remain conscious. Ali had shot her in the shoulder, but by the way she was bleeding he may have pierced a major artery. She could bleed out in twenty minutes. She needed help. They all needed help.

Weary of the fight, he shook his head and handed his gun to Ali, looking his brother in the eyes. "That's it," he said to Ali. "No, that's it, I'm done." With a sigh, he walked past Ali, leaving him and the sobbing girl behind as he stepped off the stage and headed to the door. All the other men had their guns trained on him.

"Where are you going?!" Ali called.

Hassan stopped, his head hanging low. "I am tired of the blood and the bullets. I am tired of death. I am going to let the police in. I am going to let these people go."

"She _killed_ your _wife_!" Ali screeched, angrily gesturing at Sarah "Lucy" Ball. "Doesn't that _mean_ anything to you? Don't you want _revenge_?"

Hassan heaved a huge sigh. "I want… so many things," he whispered. "Mostly… I would love to have one night of dreamless sleep. One night of relaxed slumber, no tossing and turning, no stressful rage infiltrating my nightmares. I'm so _tired_, Ali."

"So then _kill_ her and may Allah bless your dreams!" Ali called. "I thought you _wanted_ this, I thought this was your _cause_."

"It doesn't _matter_ anymore, don't you see that, Ali?" Hassan snapped, spinning around to face his brother. "None of that _matters_, not if people keep dying, not if people keep _killing_! We became _murderers _tonight, you and me, and that makes us _no better_ then the girl crying on that stage, then the Israelis… Is this our gift to the next generation? To my children, your nephews and niece, to Adam, to Fadi, to Shaza? Is this the world we want them to grow up in? One of hatred and rage and… and a battle that's been going on for sixty _years_? It won't _end_, Ali. It will never _end_. This was never what _I_ wanted, Ali. From the moment this _began_ this has been about what _you_ wanted, vengeance for Shadi's death! Vengeance for the death of our parents, for the rape of our sister, for the restrictions on our economy, for the check points and the tanks and the synagogues built on the rubble of mosques… This has been about satisfying your thirst for blood because someone has squeezed all of the life out of you. But what does this accomplish in the end? If by chance you survived this tonight, brother, what would you do then? Could you tell me that you would be _proud_? Proud that you stole the life of an innocent child and its mother? A child who never even had the chance to experience the joy of the world."

"That child was a _Jew_!" Ali snarled.

"That _child_ was a _child_!" Hassan returned. He glanced over at Greg, and then to Ali again. "Jewish or not, you must never forget that fact. Someone said today that it does not matter _what_ we are, only that we _are_. And we are _dying_. Jewish, Muslim, Christian… We are _human_ and we are _dying_. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?"

"Do not spout quotes at _me_, brother," Ali growled.

"Our… _'cause_'…" He spat the word out like a forbidden curse word. "It means _nothing_. All this killing, it has been _for nothing_!"

Slowly, Ali raised his own gun at his brother. "Lies! We are fighting for something, Hassan, we are fighting for a better future than we had! We cannot lay down like timid dogs and let them take our land, destroy our homes, and—"

"Whether we like it or not, after sixty years, Ali, it's their land too," Hassan spat.

Ali turned very cold. "Traitor…" he hissed.

Hassan looked over at Noah, whose eyes he felt on him like a blanket of snow on bare skin, burning him with cold. "You and I are very much the same now," he said. "In fact… I do not believe we were much different to begin with." He looked at his brother. "I am sorry, Ali," he said. "But my wife is dead. My parents are dead. My sister is dead. My brothers are dead."

"One brother is _still alive_!" Ali roared.

But Hassan simply laughed again. "Are you?"

The bullet that pierced his skull provided an immediate answer to this question.

"Jesus…" Simon muttered, exasperatedly.

Lucy had jumped at the sound and looked at Hassan's corpse by the door. She looked up with terrified eyes as Ali turned the gun on her.

If Ali had been paying any attention to any of the other hostages, he might have noticed that Nick was furiously typing a text message discreetly behind Simon's protective stance, and had been doing so for a while now…

But all of Ali's attention was focused specifically on this teenage girl as she scrambled back and knocked right into Greg, who was too stunned by her confession to do anything but stare at her. She looked at Greg with desperate green eyes and decided to appeal to him, as he had shown her kindness in the past.

"Please," she whispered, "you have to help me, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I never wanted to kill anyone, I didn't want any of this to happen, please! You can't let him kill me. I'm only fifteen, OK? Fifteen years old, please, I don't want to die."

Fifteen years old. That was even younger than Neil Silverman. Greg was conflicted as he looked at her, but then looked up at Ali who was standing behind her taking aim and his better judgment kicked in and he wrapped his arms protectively around her.

"Don't hurt her," he said to Ali. "She's just a kid."

"She's a murderer," Ali snarled.

There was a high pitched whine, and then the crackle of a familiar voice over the loudspeaker. "Um… This is Sara Sidle from the crime lab… I just wanted to tell you that we've apprehended three suspects in the murder of Farah Ibrahim. Sources tell us a fourth suspect is inside, so… So I'm warning you now, just… Just let the hostages go, we'll apprehend the suspect, and we're ready to make a deal with you. If not… Well, if not… We're going to have to take drastic action."

Ali looked at the window and frowned, then looked back at the hostages. "I told them not to contact me again…" he whispered, but there was a note of panic to his voice. "No. _No_, I haven't yet gotten what I wanted!"

"And what do you want, Ali?" Nick asked, stepping out from behind Simon as he slid his hand in his pocket, fingering the 'send' button of his cell phone. "Because I thought you wanted Farah Ibrahim's killer. But now, I'm not so sure anymore."

Ali waved his gun furiously at Nick. "You be quiet!" he snapped, but his confidence was wavering and Nick could tell.

Because of this weakness, Nick dared to continue. "You killed your own brother, Ali, and for what? A cause? What cause? What purpose did killing him serve?"

He cocked his gun and his eyes narrowed at Nick. "I'm warning you…"

Nick quickly hit the 'send' button before pulling his hands out of his pockets and raising them in the air. "Look," he said. "I know you. You're a freedom fighter. So am I. I want these people to be free to go home to their families. We can help you, Ali."

Ali stood there momentarily stunned before he turned at the sound of shattering glass and a sharp intake of breath from one of his men. The man looked down, his hands on his bleeding chest before he fell to his knees, then face-down on the floor, dead.

"What the—"

But before he could even finish the sentence, another window broke and another of his men fell down dead. He marched angrily towards Nick and waved his gun at him.

"_You_!" he snarled angrily. "You're responsible for this!"

There was another shot that just missed Ali's shoulder. He looked out the window and squinted, furious. "Snipers…"

Nick stepped forward slowly and caught Ali's attention again when he suddenly stopped, his hands still raised. "Just talk to them, Ali," he said. "And maybe they'll stop."

Ali laughed and shook his head. "You think I am afraid to die, Mr. Stokes?" The notion seemed hilarious to him. "I _expected_ to die tonight. I am not afraid. Are you?"

And then, Greg heard a skull-splitting bang that shattered every hope he had left, and every promise that was made that night. 


	16. Veterans of Rage

**_Author's Note:_** A quotation twofer for you folks today. Sorry to keep you waiting a whole two days for this. Actually, not really. Also, I posted it early (it's only 6:20 here in Seattle) so enjoy. I heart cliffhangers but only if they're resolved fast, so I'll tend not to keep you hanging for too long. Anyways, enjoy this chapter.

* * *

_"I cannot teach you violence, as I do not myself believe in it. I can only teach you not to bow your heads before any one even at the cost of your life."_

_"I object to violence because when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent."_

**Mahatma Gandhi, October 2 1869-- January 30 1948**

* * *

Nick only had time to frown before there was a clapping sound like a popgun. He was in the middle of taking a breath when he was suddenly gripped by a burning pain in his gut as something sharp and hot burrowed into his flesh and he stumbled backwards into Simon, momentarily stunned before the smoldering agony ripped at his nerves and sent shockwaves of fire through his blood. He clutched at his stomach and was surprised to feel something wet and warm pouring out of him. He looked down and saw red, but he wasn't too surprised. He had been covered in other people's blood all day, most recently Claire Berkowitz's. A sharp ripple shot through him like a knife splitting him apart at the seams and he jolted at this ripple, doubling over with the intention of maybe stopping it, but it helped little. He folded in on himself like a lawn chair, his hand pressing firmly into his side, hoping that if something had somehow torn him open he could maybe hold his insides and keep them from pouring out onto the floor. 

There was noise. Oh too much white noise, most of it like snow from a television set, but it blared in his ears full blast, a high pitched scratchy whine, along with the blood rushing in his veins that roared like waterfalls inside his skull. Some poltergeist was playing the xylophone on his spine and his bones rattled and stung and the terrible music it produced reverberated inside his ears as the epicenter of his pain continued to radiate aftershocks of raw, ripe pain.

Someone was pressing down firmly on his shoulder and he fell to his knees as a result of it, resting his forehead on the floor as he refused to straighten again, fearing that if he did, he would see a huge gaping hole in his side and his intestines would tumble out, followed quickly by his stomach and his liver and all the other organs that sloshed around inside of him. His face was clenched tightly as he tried madly to sort through his thoughts reasonably, but the only thing he could focus on was the pain, which was like an air horn exploding in his ears. Someone was trying to say something to him, but he couldn't hear them, not through all the noise and clatter his nerves were making inside his skull, bashing his brain around, the agony rippling back and forth between his stomach and his brain like some obscene pinball match.

He felt like he hadn't taken a breath in minutes, the inhale he had been in the middle of performing still caught in his throat like a piece of meat and he felt like he was choking on it. Someone was rolling him over and it was only then that Nick realized he had been laying stretched out on his stomach on the floor. Through the flashing colors and fireworks exploding in front of his eyes, he could make out two figures, one of them screaming desperately at the top of his lungs, the other using his one arm to try and stop the blood that gushed from Nick's wound.

Words drifted into his head like clouds, but he couldn't make sense of them. "… fucking _asshole_, you _promised_, goddammit!"

It was Greg. Oh God, Greg. That was the last person Nick had wanted to see him like this, but there he was at his side, calling him an asshole. If Nick could laugh, he might have. That was typical of Greg.

More of Greg's words floated lazily through Nick's pain. "… said I'd be first… said I wouldn't see… Goddammit, Nick, don't you fucking die on me… swear to God, I'll dig up your corpse and… _Fuck_!"

Through the haze of the bombshells exploding before Nick's eyes, and the heat and his contracting muscles, he saw Greg look up, over towards somewhere else, and he waved… or maybe Nick imagined it.

He wanted to speak. There were so many things he needed to say. He had to say something clever, something witty, something brilliant in case they happened to be his last words, but his mouth was _so _dry and his chest was so sore it was an effort just to keep breathing. So he settled instead for an unintelligible groan that made him sound like a wounded caveman and he hated that.

Things were moving very fast. Everything got very bright, like someone had turned up the brightness of a TV screen and turned the contrast way down. Tentacles of the darkness crept into his vision, and the brightness tried to fight it, but to no avail, and soon, like poison, it consumed him completely.

* * *

When Nick had gotten shot, Greg had seriously thought he had imagined it. He heard the gunshot, and he saw it pierce is friend, but he felt like he was watching something on TV as opposed to real life. He was separated from it, the barrier of fiction firmly in place between them. It couldn't be real. After all they'd been through, Nick had promised him that he wasn't going to die, and Greg had been in such denial, he was foolish enough to take this promise as fact, and not for the uncertain prayer it really was. So when he saw Nick grip his stomach in confusion and pain, he had thought, _That's not Nick._ Because if it was Nick, that meant that he was badly wounded, like Amira Osman was badly wounded, and that he might not survive. 

But Greg didn't have time to dwell on Nick's predicament as he soon found that his own life was up in the air when Ali started rapidly firing around him and Greg pushed Lucy to the floor, instinctively covering her body with his own. Lucky for Greg, Ali was only firing at shoulder level, and the bullets flew over Greg's head, but unlucky for others. Kareem Osman was hit in the shoulder, Noah grazed his ear, and Simon barely dodged the bullet when he pushed Nick down to the floor. The moment he bent down to make sure Nick was OK, a bullet streaked right above him and would have cut through his chest if he'd been standing. Ali had caught a couple other hostages (Greg counted six, but there may have been more) who instantly dropped to the floor, having been shot through the neck, head, or heart, or some just in too much pain to keep standing.

Meanwhile, the snipers had continued to take out most of Ali's men, and whoever the snipers missed, Ali's random fire seemed to hit. The FBI stormed in right as Ali shoved the gun under his chin and pulled the trigger.

Breathing heavily and covered in everyone else's blood but his own, Greg looked around in astonishment as SWAT team members and FBI agents swarmed the scene, checking corpses and the wounded, shouting orders to the few unhurt hostages and directing paramedics to the injured.

Greg abandoned a sobbing Lucy as soon as he deemed it safe to check on Nick and crawled on over to his friend. He looked at Simon, who tore his shirt apart with his teeth and single arm as he tried to wrap the wound.

"In the field, everyone's trained in basic medicine," he explained to Greg. "And even if you've only got one arm, if we can apply enough pressure to the wound now, he might last long enough until the medics get over here."

Greg looked up to see that the first set of medics were tending to Amira Osman. "They better be damn fast," he said.

Greg noticed that Simon seemed to be bleeding. "Your cheek…"

Simon frowned at him, then reached up a hand to his cheek and stared at the blood that came off on his fingers. "Oh," he said simply. "I guess I was hit." Shrugging it off, he turned his attention back to Nick, but Greg wouldn't dismiss it so easily.

"Lieutenant, your scalp…" he said, noting that a bullet had indeed seemed to have grazed the side of Simon's head from his cheek over his ear, ripping off the top layer of skin. Greg could see his skull, and he found this very disconcerting.

"I'll be fine," Simon snapped at Greg. "Now pay attention and help me here, your friend needs you."

Greg shook his head. "I… I don't know what to do," he said, honestly. He wasn't a doctor, though he had tried desperately to play one all night, and every one of his so-called patients had died. Neil, Claire, and now Nick. He couldn't do it. It was too hard.

"You're not hurt," Simon noted. "If you can't help me, then you should head over there, with the others, get out of this hell hole."

"Fuck no!" Greg said, offended at the suggestion. "I'm not leaving without Nick… fucking idiot…" He shook his head as he tried to keep calm, and though he wasn't sure what to do, he followed Simon's example and took strips of Simon's shirt, wrapping it tightly around Nick's freely bleeding wound. He looked at Simon. "You know he lied to me?" He closed his eyes, which were surprisingly dry. He looked down at Nick and chewed on his lip. "You're a son of a bitch, you know that Nick?" Just looking at him as his eyelids fluttered made Greg even angrier and he began to yell at him in order to keep the fear at bay. "You fucking _asshole_, you _promised_, goddammit, you said I wouldn't have to watch you die! For God's sake, Nick, don't do this, not now…" His eyes began to sting and he hated it so he rubbed them with one hand furiously before continuing. "Come on, man, you said I'd be first. You said I wouldn't have to see this. Goddammit, Nick, don't you fucking die on me! If you die now, I swear to God, I'll dig up your corpse just so I can shoot you myself! You have to survive, so I can _kill_ you, you son of a bitch! _FUCK_!"

"The medics are coming over," Simon said.

Greg looked up and his eyes widened with relief as he waved them over. "Faster! Please!"

They got the message and started jogging over just as Nick moaned and caught Greg's attention again. Greg laughed lightly, and wiped the sweat dripping down Nick's brow.

"It's OK, Nick," he said. "You'll be OK. I promise."

He was doing it again, making promises he couldn't keep, but he knew that if Nick had heard him, he would draw comfort from that empty promise, that tiny bit of unfounded but very much needed hope.

The medics pushed Nick and Simon away and they stood back, letting the professionals work their miracles. Greg didn't take his eyes off of Nick. At least, not until he heard her voice.

"GREG!"

Startled by the sound of it, he looked up and saw her silhouette in the doorway, illuminated by floodlights shining in from outside. He couldn't see her face in the light, but he didn't need to. He knew that silhouette anywhere, but even though he saw it, he still didn't believe. She couldn't be real. It wasn't possible. He had resigned himself to die that night. He had had less trouble accepting his own doom than Nick's, which was a fact that he didn't know if he should find disturbing or not. But now that she was there, now that it was over, it all felt too unreal. He had been fighting the Queen of Hearts in Wonderland for so long that the real world seemed like the dream to him, and the rabbit hole was his frozen and twisted reality.

She was running towards him now, and she wasn't alone. And before Greg knew it, he was suffocated by the scent of vanilla and cinnamon and a mass of brown hair. She held him so tightly, he swore she cracked a rib, but he didn't care. He returned the embrace with desperate ferocity, his mind still not able to register that this vision was real. He needed to clutch her tight, he needed to breathe in her scent, to hear her voice again and again before he would even allow himself to consider that she was real.

"I thought maybe you were dead…" she whispered.

Greg simply closed his eyes, reveling in her closeness, simply glad that she was so relieved, that she was happy to see him alive.

"Nick…" he began, and he felt her nod against his shoulder.

"I know," she said. "I know, but I can hug the life out of him when he's conscious and healthy again, I'm just so _glad_ to see you alive."

Sara sounded so certain that Nick would recover, when Greg felt so sure that he would fade away, that the bullet inside of him would eat him alive.

Soon, Sara Sidle wasn't the only one Greg was aware of. He felt a firm hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes, looking to his side to see Grissom beaming at him, like a father congratulating his son on his high school graduation day. He looked relieved, moreover he looked almost proud, and that chased the darkness from Greg's mind as he found his home again in the presence of his friends.

He pulled away from Sara to see that her clothes were covered in blood, and she had a smear of it on her cheek as she blinked at him. He looked down at his bare chest, which was painted crimson with everyone else's sacrifice, and he knew then, almost instinctively as he looked at Sara's pale face, that he was different from them now. He had been resurrected from the dead, and like a zombie he could never really rejoin the living ever again. He had been to the edge and seen the darkness, the vast void of oblivion, and it had invaded his soul, twisting it and carving it into a battle-scarred veteran of a war that was fought and lost in the limbo hours between midnight and morning.

And though the darkness had become a part of him, he still refused to shy away from the light, from the warmth of a friend's embrace, from the cool taste of a sweet sticky soda sliding down his throat, from the congenial familiarity of arguing about baseball with a brother. He would bathe in the sun until it chased away the black, and though it might take years, and maybe his whole life, Greg refused to ever let it control him again. He would love them, the children of the light, even if he was no longer apart of them, and he would let them love him in return. Because even though he was lost to the darkness, he wasn't alone. His comrade in arms would always be there with him, and they would face the darkness together.

"I, uh… got your shirt dirty," Greg said dully and Sara laughed almost hysterically at the comment. He looked at Grissom, who was watching Nick warily. Though he wanted to see how Nick was doing, he couldn't bring himself to follow Grissom's gaze.

"Nick contacted us," Grissom told Greg, his eyes never leaving their wounded friend. "About fifteen minutes ago. Did you know that?" He looked up at Greg and judged by the frown on the young CSI's face that he hadn't known. Grissom turned his gaze back to Nick and continued. "He told us that a girl confessed to the crime. All Brass needed was that, and he told the others that he'd found their fourth accomplice and she was telling them everything, and they… they cracked."

"How long have you had snipers scoping out the place?" Greg asked.

"As long as the feds have been here," Grissom replied. "They never had a clear shot until they moved towards the window, and even then they didn't want to start shooting them when Ali could have shot all of you in retaliation. They wanted a direct shot of Ali, but could never get one. Nick was the deciding factor into when to shoot. He told us to hit as many as we could see, and we did."

Greg folded his arms and looked down at his friend, who was now being lifted onto a stretcher and unconscious. "He's a real hero, isn't he?" he said. "I knew he would be. He's just got that personality, you know? He just… saves people. Like breathing, it's just something he…" Greg trailed off as he felt the grief rise into his throat. He swallowed it with great effort, determined to keep his composure in front of Grissom and Sara. "… does," he finished dully.

He realized for the first time that he wasn't wearing a shirt and was suddenly freezing cold. He looked up at Grissom. "Can I go home now?"

Sara smiled fondly at him and pulled out a blue blanket as if from nowhere, draping across his bare shoulders. He clung to it desperately, like a child afraid of a nightmare that needed the security of the real world to remind him that the worst was past.

"See a medic," Grissom insisted. "And talk to Agent Ripley, he won't let you leave until you do, and then I'll drive you home."

"I'm fine," Greg insisted quickly. "Really, I am, I mean, the only thing that happened to me was a dislocated shoulder, and that's fine now, so…"

"Still," Sara said quietly, eying his shoulder warily. "You should talk to a doctor, to make sure you didn't bruise the muscles too badly or anything like that."

Greg frowned and rotated his shoulder 360 degrees in its socket. "It's _fine_," he maintained. "Trust me, if it was badly hurt, I would be feeling it."

"Not necessarily," Grissom said. "The adrenaline—"

"Please, Grissom," Greg interrupted, sounding tired. "I… I don't want to talk about adrenaline or evidence or science, I just want to…" His eyes fell on Nick, who was being carried out the door by the medical professionals. He'd lost his train of thought as he felt that a part of him was carried out with Nick.

He was vaguely aware of someone taking his hand, and someone else catching him as he stumbled backwards, his knees suddenly very weak beneath him. Still, somehow he made it to the door, under the guidance of his two friends.

The starry sky outside was too breathtaking for Greg to bear and his jaw dropped. It had only been about six hours since he'd last seen the sky, but it was still a remarkable sight to behold. A velvet blanket of black draped over the sleeping world, penetrated by tiny holes of light which housed millions of secret wishes and had borne witness to billions of years of history. It was 4:45. So he would see another sunrise after all.

He would never see the sky the same way ever again.

He found that someone was making him sit down in the back of an ambulance, his feet dangling over the edge as he kicked the gravel with his bloody shoes. He looked up to see Sara kneeling beside him as she took out a first aid kit and some gauze, wetting it slightly with a water bottle before tenderly applying it to his face.

She rubbed at his cheek, and Greg felt like a little kid whose mother was embarrassing him by licking a tissue and trying to get dirt off his face. Instinctively, he batted her away.

"I don't need that…" he said. "If you want to help people, go help Simon in there, he was shot in the head, he needs…"

"I don't care what he needs right now," Sara said softly. "I care about your needs. And right now, you need to be cleaned up. Or do you want to stay covered in blood forever?"

"But Simon was _shot_," Greg said. "I… I wasn't." He spoke the words with the hint of surprise, like getting shot was a common thing that everyone went through and he hadn't done it yet. "I wasn't shot. Go inside, tell him I sent you, he was grazed by the side of his head, it looked bad, and don't let him tell you to forget about it. He was a real help to Nick and me in there, he saved my ass more than once, now go."

Sara wrinkled her nose at him and folded her arms. "There are paramedics for that, Greg. Doctors and EMTs are swarming this area, OK, they probably have someone taking care of him. You need someone to take care of you now. I'm not an experienced medical professional. But I am your friend, and I want to help you."

"I appreciate the concern, Sara," Greg said, as kindly as he could. "But I just want to go home."

She looked hurt by the statement, but didn't speak. Instead she just looked down at the already bloody gauze in her quaking hands. He knew she just wanted to help. But too many people were dead and dying and the blood on his hands only reminded him of that fact. All of their blood was on his hands.

Grissom appeared behind Sara with a man Greg didn't recognize. He was tall with a grayish brown mustache which matched his neatly trimmed hair. He wore a trench coat and a badge that said FBI. He extended his hand to Greg. "Mr. Sanders? I'm Agent Ripley with the FBI, if I could I'd like to congratulate you on your heroism tonight."

Greg blinked at him, not quite understanding the statement. He didn't take the man's proffered hand. "Her—heroism? What heroism, sir?"

Ripley frowned. "Well, the girl, Sarah Ball, she told us that you saved lives in there, including her own. That was very courageous of you, sir."

Greg ignored this and frowned. "Do you want me to give a statement, or…"

"If you like," said Ripley. "Captain Brass can take it, he's down at the station if you want to find him. It's not necessary, though. We're pretty clear from what everyone else has told us about what went on tonight."

"So can I go home now?" Greg asked.

Ripley nodded before another man came up behind him and whispered in his ear. "I have to go," he said. "An injured witness has information on the terrorists, a... Mr. Kareem Osman." And with that, he left.

Greg looked from Grissom to Sara. "Can I go now? Please?"

Sara sighed, her eyes sad. "Sure," she said. "But let me clean you up a bit first. Get you a clean shirt. Is that OK?"

Reluctantly, Greg nodded. He knew he wouldn't be able to get out of there without cooperating with them.

Grissom folded his arms as Sara stood up to find Greg a shirt. "When she's done, I'll take you home," Grissom said.

Greg gave him a very weak smile. "Thanks, Grissom."

Grissom returned the smile, equally weak. "Anything to help you out, Greg."


	17. White Trash

**_Author's Note:_** I watched the finale at midnight last night. That is all I am going to say. Until September, I will entertain myself with reruns and fan fiction. In the meantime, enjoy this short chapter while I go and tech my show. You all and wonderfully lovely people, and for those of you who think this story is over, it's not. I have yet to write an ending, although I think I might be close to it. Enjoy.

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_"The one place where a man ought to get a square deal is in a courtroom, be he any color of the rainbow, but people have a way of carrying their resentments right into a jury box. As you grow older, you'll see white men cheat black men every day of your life, but let me tell you something and don't you forget it - whenever a white man does that to a black man, no matter who he is, how rich he is, or how fine a family he comes from, that white man is trash."_

**Atticus Finch, from Harper Lee's _To Kill A Mocking Bird_**

* * *

"It was… dark," Trevor Savage said, folding his arms as he leaned back in his chair. "And we were bored. So we drove around town for a while and then Derrick saw that bitch just walking there, right, and so Lucy says… 'Lets grab her purse!' Like I want money from a crazy BMO."

"Beg pardon?" Brass cocked an unsympathetic eyebrow.

Trevor smiled and shrugged. "Black Moving Object, you know, I mean the fucking chick was wearing a black rag on her head, you could barely see her in all that darkness."

Brass's eyes narrowed. "I see. So you decided… what? That you'd just beat and rape her instead?"

Trevor was still smiling as he raised his eyebrows. "Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, I had my baseball bat in the back. And she wasn't with another Papa Ganoush, if you catch my drift. All on her own. Well she should have thought of that before her terrorist friends abandoned her to go blow up that community center. I figured, they took out the Towers, we'll take her out. Beat her down, make her beg, make her suffer. If it makes a difference, I never wanted to kill her. But I wasn't sorry when it happened. So we roughed her up a bit, and Lucy was… screaming about _something_ but soon enough she was joining in on the fun. So we pulled the Pajama Mama into the car, and Derrick thought it'd be funny to make her blow him, you know? Jason has pictures on his camera phone. When she bit him, _man_ that was a riot, and did Derrick get mad, you can imagine. And then, I found new uses for my baseball bat."

Brass was staring down at the table. "The woman you killed had a name, you know."

Trevor snorted. "Yeah, like… Miriam or some shit like that, right? I don't know, all the names sound the same to me. Everyone's named Mohamed or Ahmed, I mean, how the hell do they tell each other apart? _Dirka dirka_, right?"

"How old are you, Trevor?" Brass asked.

Trevor shrugged. "Seventeen."

"I suppose you were relying on your age to get you out of this?" Brass asked. "I hope you know a crime this severe, even a minor can be tried as an adult, especially one just short of his eighteenth birthday."

Trevor did not look perturbed. "I don't care," he said. "It was worth it just to see the look on her face."

"If I may be so bold as to inquire…" Brass said, a hint of biting sarcasm to his tone as he leaned forward slightly. "What inspired this… _view_ on Middle Easterners?"

"What?" Trevor was laughing. "They're terrorists," he said. "Everyone knows that. And freaks. I mean, they're on their knees five times a day, fucking sand kissers, I figured their bitches might as well be doing _something_ useful while they're down there."

Brass felt too nauseous to continue as he rose to his feet and rubbed his eyes. He looked at the door and gestured at the officer. "Take Mr. Sensitivity here away," he said. "I'm tired of looking at this trash."

The boy went quietly out the door and Brass followed, but he looked over his shoulder at the detective as the officer led him down the hall. "You know," he called back, "I should have gone to Iraq. They kill camel jockeys for their country over there all the fucking time. Here, it's not appreciated like it should be. Consider that bitch's death my gift to America."

He was so busy looking at Brass as he walked that he ran straight into someone else and stumbled backwards. He looked up at the person he ran into, a stone cold statue looking worn and tired, but very angry.

"I know a soldier who would resent what you just said," he told him icily.

"And who the hell are you, huh?" Trevor spat. The statue didn't reply and the officer tugged on his arm, hauling him away, the young man watching the criminal's retreating back.

Brass thought his heart had stopped. He checked to make sure it was still beating before smiling at the person before him, battered and haggard, but alive nonetheless.

"Greg Sanders," he said proudly. "Should you even be here?"

When Greg turned to look at him with sad brown eyes, Brass thought momentarily that he had begun to celebrate a little too soon. But then, a slow grin carved itself into his toughened features and Brass recognized the man he once knew, although the glee expressed in his smile did not reach his dark eyes.

"I don't know…" he said honestly. "Grissom and Sara made sure a medic checked me out, but I kept telling them all I had was a busted shoulder…" He looked down and rotated the joint. "Actually, it doesn't even feel as sore as it did a few hours ago. I mean, it could have been much worse. Like Nick…" He seemed to lose himself for a moment, but quickly found himself again. "But they wouldn't let me leave until I went though all the motions. Sara found me a clean shirt, mine was all… Well, it was messy. And Grissom offered to drive me home, but… I decided to stop off here. See if you guys… needed information from me, or anything. I can give a statement if you like."

Brass smiled at his need to help out with the investigation. "No, Greg, that's not necessary. Not tonight."

Greg nodded in understanding. "Have you… talked to Sarah Ball yet?"

" Sofia's taking her statement now," Brass replied.

"Look…" Greg said slowly. "Those other guys… I hope they get the worst thing you can give them, but her… What she did was wrong. But she knows that. And she's just a kid. And she's already been through so much tonight."

"Greg," Brass said quickly. "She has a lawyer for that."

Greg let out a long sigh. "Right," he said. "I… guess I forgot." He'd lived in a world where lawyers and the US judicial system didn't exist for the past six hours. He had forgotten how things worked in the real world. He had forgotten that people weren't shot on sight for the most trivial of transgressions. Even something as small and secret as a stolen kiss was punishable by death in that world. But here, there were rules, and there were laws, and the men who raped and tortured a woman would live out their lives in jail cells because courts deemed them too young for the death penalty.

Too young. Neil Silverman was too young too. His brother Jared wasn't much older. Where was there protection? Their constitutional rights?

Greg's whole view of the world had been completely skewed in six hours, and he didn't know what he believed in anymore. Life and death, two concepts that used to be mutually exclusive in his mind, now blurred together in some obscene Venn diagram and Greg was caught in the overlapping middle. Good and evil were the exact same way.

Brass must have noticed that Greg's mind had floated elsewhere, because when he said his name, it was dripping with concern. "Greg?"

Greg blinked at him and smiled again. "Isn't it amazing, the things kids can do?" he asked.

"Trevor Savage's parents neglected him," Brass said. "Maybe if they'd spent more time with him, they might have taught him a few things about respect and tolerance. But Derrick Letman and Jason Baker have no excuse. Their families are wealthy and they go to church and they're both shocked, the Letmans in particular. Apparently Derrick's sister is engaged to a Pakistani fellow. The seeds of hate can be sewn anywhere, Greg, in anyone from any background. You have to be careful of that."

Greg nodded. "Right," he said. "I, um… I have to go. I'm… tired."

"You gonna be alright there, Greg?" Brass asked.

Greg bit his lip and didn't reply. But at that moment, the door to the next interrogation room opened and Sarah "Lucy" Ball walked out and looked up at Greg with bloodshot eyes. His heart stopped momentarily, and he knew he was dead as her blue eyes locked with his dark ones. They stood there, staring at each other, neither saying a single word, until the police officer next to her pulled her by the arm and she stumbled, falling forward slightly as her blonde hair covered her face. Greg bent slightly forward and reached out, touching her chin with his finger and tilting her head up. She flinched at his touch, but looked up at him briefly, before the officer made sure she was on her way down the hall. Greg watched her go as Sofia stepped out of the room. His heart started beating again and he was once again drawn back to the land of the living.

"What's the verdict?" he asked Sofia quietly, still watching her retreating back.

Sofia sighed loudly. "Well, she's going to be tried as a minor," she said. "An accessory. She, uh… talked about you a lot. She called you an angel. A hero."

Greg shuddered at the word. He didn't want to be a hero, and he was a far cry from an angel. He just wanted to feel alive again. He would trade the title of "hero" for that privilege any day. Heroes often don't understand the sacrifices they think they're willing to make until it's already done. No one in their right mind wants to be a hero. Not if they can help it.

"Yeah, well… I think she's a good kid. Maybe. She just fell in with a very bad crowd, mob mentality…" he trailed off.

Sofia laid a tender hand on Greg's shoulder. "Are you going to be OK, Greg?"

"Yeah," he said. "I wish I could say the same for Nick. And, uh… could you do me a favor and, uh… I appreciate what you're trying to say, but would you guys just, please… stop asking if I'm OK?"

Sofia seemed surprised by this statement, but dutifully withdrew her hand. "Alright. Take care, OK, Greg?"

He nodded, said goodbye, then turned on his heal as quickly as possible and headed swiftly down the hall and made for his car. Though they had cleaned him up some at the crime scene, he still felt the blood caked on him like a second skin. He wanted to go home and take a shower and then he would…

Die.

That sounded like the best idea he could think of. He had been dead for so long he had forgotten how to live. He felt like a vampire masquerading in the daylight. He was worn and exhausted, and his thoughts were locked on Nick. He wondered vaguely if he would be able to sleep that morning.

He was about to leave when he saw Grissom waiting for him in the exit and he stopped dead in his tracks, watching Grissom to see if he would move first.

"I would have thought you'd have gone to the hospital by now, with Sara," Greg said warily.

"I told you I'd drive you home, and that's what I'm going to do," Grissom replied. "I'm not about to leave you on your own, Greg. Not after all you've been through tonight."

"I'd actually prefer to be alone right now," Greg told him. "There are things in my head that I need to… untangle. The world doesn't really make sense to me anymore."

Grissom favored Greg with a rare smile. "You're bound to feel that way, Greg, but I'm not going to leave you alone. Not tonight."

"Grissom, I know you're just trying to help—" Greg began, but Grissom cut him off.

"Greg, as your supervisor, I recommend you let me drive you home," Grissom said with mock sternness. "Your job could depend on it."

"And if I say I may not want to work here anymore?" Greg asked, his voice devoid of jest.

Grissom sighed, sad to see this serious change in his once light-hearted friend. Ten hours ago, he had come in to work to see Greg in the break room with his feet up on the table, throwing popcorn at the TV screen as he watched cartoons. Grissom recalled he had wanted to switch the station to the news, but Greg had whined like a child to finish his cartoon. He had said that the news was too depressing, that he didn't want to see other people's misery displayed for the world to see, and that he would much rather watch the crazy antics of the Tommy Pickles and his friends as they foiled the plans of Tommy's mean cousin for the hundredth time.

_"I mean, these kids have been babies for the past fourteen years. Wouldn't you kill to be a child that long?" _

_"Believe me, Greg, there are sometimes that I wonder if you ever grew up at all."_

_"I'm going to take that as a compliment. Do we have any chocolate milk?"_

"Grissom?"

Greg's voice snapped Grissom out of his reverie and he blinked at his friend. "You don't want to quit, Greg," he said. "Or if you do, then… Then _I_ don't want you to quit. We need you here."

"You don't _need_ me, Grissom," Greg said. "You'll just find and train someone else and you'll move on."

"Well, yeah," Grissom admitted. "But that takes time and effort, and I'll have to interview people and I _hate _that. Plus, we already spent money on _your_ training, it would be fiscally irresponsible for me to let you go without a fight. Ecklie would probably kill me, and that would just be a huge mess of paperwork that Catherine would be assigned, and you know how much she hates that. Not to mention Ecklie'd have to find a new nightshift supervisor… It would be much easier if you just… stayed."

Greg's head began to hurt and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Grissom, I… I don't know, I'm confused."

"Listen, if you really want to quit, I can't stop you," Grissom said. "But why don't you just take a few days off before you make that decision. And in the meantime… let me take you home?"

Greg looked up at Grissom and gave him a reluctant smile. "Do I get paid?"

Grissom laughed out loud. "I'll see what I can do," he said.

"Is Nick doing OK?" Greg asked as he followed Grissom outside.

"Last I heard, he was still in surgery," Grissom replied. "Do you want to stop off at the hospital?"

"No…" Greg said, surprising himself with the answer. "I mean… Well, he made me a promise. And Nick keeps his promises. I trust that. Besides, I… I just want to go home, take a shower, and crash, you know?"

He stepped outside and stopped suddenly. It was nearly 6:00AM and the sky was a smooth lavender color, with slivers of orange and pink creeping up over the horizon. He grabbed Grissom's arm, staring at the swirl of colors through the haze of pollution that hovered over Las Vegas like a veil of chemicals, amplifying the colors of the sunrise.

"What's wrong?" Grissom asked, but Greg put a finger to his lips, urging him to be silent for a moment as he took in the light that was lazily crawling up to illuminate the world for one more day. And as he watched it, he realized Nick was right. The night always ends, and the sunrise makes it all worth it.

Grissom smiled at him and opened the passenger side door to his car and Greg slid inside, still staring at the sunrise as Grissom walked around the car and got in the driver's side, ready to finally take Greg home.


	18. What If?

_**Author's Note:**_ Eek! I'm catching up with myself writing-wise again. The good news is, I'm coming to an ending, I can just feel it. There's a lot I still have left to say, and for those of you who liked Simon and the other hostages, there will be a follow-up as to how they're doing (I expect you all to wonder who the third unscathed hostage was). AND I just saw the Ugly Betty finale, which was almost as frustrating as the CSI one (though not quite). So I'm definitely in a writing mood to get my mind to calm down, so I should be keeping the updates daily. Anyways, I adore your reviews, they're always so insightful and encouraging, especially those of you who have followed my CSI fic spree these past few months (you know who you are ;o) ). Anyways, keep reading, keep reviewing, keep writing (if you write) and keep watching CSI reruns at 9:00 on CBS until September.

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_"If you are going through hell, keep going."_

**Winston Churchill**

* * *

While Warrick had felt helpless when Nick and Greg were trapped in the community center, he refused to run away from them now. He paced outside of the operating room, waiting to catch a nurse and ask how Nick was doing, but whenever someone went in or out they completely ignored him. He wanted to tear his hair out. 

"What if I don't wake up?"

Warrick was too tired to deal with his own shenanigans. He stopped in his pacing, knowing that when he turned around again, he would see Nick's face. "Please just go away."

"I can't go away, 'Rick," Nick said calmly. "I mean, I may disappear for a while when your real friends show up and you think you're rid of me, but I never really go _away_, do I Warrick?"

Warrick turned around to see Nick standing right in front of him. "What do you want from me? Do you want me to admit I was wrong?"

"No," Nick said. "Not at all. I want you to realize that you _weren't_ wrong. You were just scared. In fact, you still are. You're human, Warrick, and so am I. Which means we're fallible, and we are mortal. And I want you to understand that everyone lives, and everyone dies. Sometimes sooner rather than later."

"What if…" Warrick began slowly. "What if I had won that coin toss two years ago?"

"Then I would have gone to hell and back again to make sure you made it out alive," Nick replied. "Just like you did for me. And we all would have found you. Just like you all found me. Look, man, you know that thoughts like that don't do anything but fuck you over because you always think of the worst case scenarios. You have to stick with what actually happened because it's what you know. No 'what if' scenario is going to get you out of this one. And you can muse all you want and it won't change the fact that I'm laying on that operating table right now caught somewhere between this world and the next."

"I'm really, really scared, Nick," Warrick whispered.

Nick favored him with a classic Texan lopsided grin. "I know you are, 'Rick. I know you are."

"What if you don't wake up?"

Nick sighed. "And there it is. The one 'what if' question you can ask yourself that you may actually have to face. What if, Warrick? What if… you have to keep going without me? I tried to prepare you for this earlier, but you wouldn't look at me. I tried to warn you this might happen, but you chased me away with tequila. And now… Now you're out of places to hide and you're looking for an answer to a question you didn't want to ask. What if I don't survive?"

"Do you always talk in riddles?" Warrick snapped. "I asked you a question; I want you to answer it; I don't need you telling me what I already know."

"Well what else can I tell you _but_ what you already know?" Nick asked. "I come straight from you, buddy."

"So you don't have an answer?" Warrick sounded dejected.

"Keep pacing," Nick said. "Maybe you'll think of one."

Warrick blinked and Nick was gone. He saw the elevator open and a woman stumbled out. Her hair was a tousled mess and she had put her coat on inside out, but she walked quickly down the hall and it wasn't until she got closer that he recognized her.

He stopped in his endeavor to wear a hole clean through the floor and squinted at her. "Sara?"

She stopped, as though suddenly becoming aware of him as well. They were about ten feet apart from each other, and she looked frazzled to say the least, but she didn't even twitch as she took in his own exhausted appearance.

Out of words, she simply said, "You look gross."

The hint of a smile twitched at his lips and he rubbed his tired eyes. "Yeah, well, I'm at the beginning of a bad hangover."

"You know what's great for those?" Sara said. "Not getting drunk."

"Oh so now you're a wiseass. Well what's your excuse?"

"I'm always a wiseass. And I don't need an excuse, I can pull any look off." She smirked, but her eyes were empty. Regardless of her words, she looked over her shoulder to see the tag on her jacket sticking out and took it off, turning it the right way again. She straightened out her hair half-heartedly before looking at the door to the operating room and letting out a long sigh. "How is he doing?"

"He's not dead yet," Warrick replied.

"Well I guess that's more than Greg…" Sara muttered.

"What?"

She blinked, and then seemed to realize she had just spoken aloud. "Oh, no, Greg, he… He's just different. It… scares me a little."

"He's young… resilient… If anyone can jump back, he can," Warrick assured her.

"Mm…" Sara intoned absently, her eyes gliding back to Nick's door. "You should see his eyes. It's like he's been to war and back again."

"He has been," Warrick reminded her.

Sara's eyes flittered back over to Warrick and she just blinked at him in reply. "Where's Catherine?"

At this, Warrick's lips twisted into a full-fledged grin. He nodded behind him down the hall and Sara looked past him to see the blonde stretched out on three chairs, fast asleep. It looked like an incredibly comfortable position, which may have been why she was snoring.

Sara couldn't help but chuckle lightly at the sight. "Oh dear," she said.

"Don't wake her," Warrick pleaded. "I wish I could sleep anywhere like she can."

"Oh I won't," Sara promised. "But can I at least draw a mustache on her with magic marker?"

"Don't be a brat, Sara," Warrick said, but he was smiling.

"I thought I was a wiseass," Sara quipped.

"It's not impossible to be both," Warrick replied. He was grateful for her playful words, because they provided a much needed distraction from his worrying, one that didn't involve imaginary friends. "I'm glad you're here, Sara."

"Where else would I be?" she asked. "Greg doesn't want me around."

He frowned at this. "What do you mean?"

"I told you," she said. "He's… different now. I think he's cut himself off from everything. When I hugged him… he was so cold. I mean, literally, his skin was like ice. He was covered in blood, and he looked… Like a statuesque gravestone. And he held me so tight, I think… I think he thought that if he let go he would never feel warm again. He was shivering, and I… I threw the blanket over him and he held it tightly around his shoulders…" She looked over her shoulder at the door to the operating room as a nurse quickly exited and ran down the hall without a word to them.

She turned back to Warrick, sighed and rolled her eyes. "This whole thing just… sucks. A lot. So many people have died tonight. Too many people. And Nick isn't the only one who's badly injured, either, this hospital is _filled_ with victims from that… that _massacre_. And Greg, he saw it all and he comes out of it completely unscathed. There's bound to be some mad survivor's guilt kicking his brain in. And I'm just worried that he won't deal with it, and he'll try to be himself again, and find that he can't turn on the news without remembering tonight. And I'm worried that Nick won't… I mean… And if he does, if Nick does… pull through, that… that he won't be the same Nick anymore either. That he'll be made of ice, just like Greg. And I can't just put a blanket over them or stick them in front of a fire and hope they melt. I can't touch them. And that's killing me."

Warrick looked down at the floor and reversed his opinion on Sara's presence. When she had been making playful banter, he had welcomed her appearance with open arms, much preferring a living, breathing, joking friend to a hallucination of a dying one. But now that she was speaking seriously, now that she was talking about Nick and Greg, Warrick found that he couldn't wish Sara away, he couldn't tell her to leave, or retreat into the depths of his subconscious. Talking to Imaginary Nick, he only had to worry about himself, and his own grief. But talking to Sara, he had to take hers into account as well.

His phone beeped and he looked down, his frown deepening. Sara's phone beeped too, and she pulled it out, but Warrick was faster.

"Total casualties... twenty-one. Total deaths just rose from fifteen to sixteen. They lost a guy on the operating table five minutes ago."

"Twenty-one casualties out of twenty-four hostages…" Sara whispered, staring at her phone. "And the odds of Greg not being among them? Fuck me."

"Greg and the girl," Warrick said. "The one that actually killed Farah Ibrahim. The fact that both of them were two of three people who didn't get hurt? It's almost… eerily ironic."

Sara was quiet. She had nothing left to say. So instead, she moved towards the sleeping Catherine and sat down in a chair by her head. Catherine moaned in her sleep and pulled her knees up to her chest, taking up only about two chairs as one arm dangled over the side. Sara was amazed at the small amount of space Catherine could take up if she needed to. She was curled up like a cat in a very uncomfortable bed, sleeping relatively soundly were it not for the occasional snore.

Amused by this thought, Sara reached out and stroked Catherine's hair tenderly, pulling it away from her face and behind her ear.

This delicate touch was enough to make Catherine stretch out her shoulders and her arms in a feline manner, which only made Sara's smile widen. She opened her bright blue eyes and smiled as she stared up at Sara upside down.

"Hey, you," Sara whispered.

"Any word on Nick yet?" Catherine asked.

Sara looked at Warrick, who was leaning against the opposite wall with his arms folded, sulking. "No," she said. "Not yet."

Catherine yawned as she sat up. "What time is it?"

" Seven o'clock," Sara replied. "The night is over."

"What a long night, too," Catherine said, rubbing the back of her neck. "Damn, I'm so stiff…" She followed Sara's gaze and her eyes rested on the quietly grieving Warrick, who seemed lost inside his own head. "Has he been like that for long?"

Sara bit her lip. "We just got the message," she said. "Twenty-one casualties, not including the terrorists. Sixteen dead."

"Sixteen dead…" Catherine repeated, as though saying the words again would help her understand the concept better. "I just don't understand it, Sara. How could anyone just… kill sixteen people and still be in their right mind?"

"They weren't in their right minds," Sara replied. "They were infected with… unadulterated rage. It's a black mud that creeps in under your finger nails, into the corners of your eyes and lips, into your ears… It's inhaled like a noxious gas and joins the blood stream until it possesses you completely and you're not quite human anymore. And worst of all, it's highly contagious, and it slowly destroys the soul of its host until there's nothing left. And I'm afraid that…" She stopped, feeling it was better not to voice the thought that had been weighing heavily on her mind ever since she saw the darkness mirrored in the bottom of Greg's frigid brown eyes.

But Catherine seemed to know Sara's unvoiced fear. "I know," she said. "You can't come out of something like that without taking some of that mud with you…"

Sara looked at Catherine with a blank expression. "This is far from over, isn't it?"

Catherine could do nothing but smile sympathetically and shrug.

* * *

He woke up and it was dark. Much darker than he remembered. His whole body was stiff from being in the same position for too long. Where was he? He couldn't seem to recall. He felt around with his hands and felt he was laying on something cool and smooth, like glass or plastic… Frowning, he moved his hands outward to examine the floor but they didn't go very far until they each it a wall made of the same material as the floor. 

Panic began to swell in Nick's chest as he realized for the first time what this meant. Frantically, his hands felt around in his small enclosure until they stumbled upon something long and cylindrical and he snatched it up, feeling it out to make sure it was what he thought it was. When he was satisfied, he snapped it and a green light from the glow stick illuminated his coffin.

Walls. Walls on either side of him and outside, dirt and mud and bugs and no sunlight to be found.

He screamed hysterically at the top of his lungs and began to bang on the ceiling of his glass prison, but it wouldn't even fracture. No. _No_, he had escaped this hell once, why had he been thrown back? Unless… Unless it had all been some sweet, psychosomatic dream, a grand illusion concocted by his failing imagination to make his last moments happy ones. Had the last two years been just pretend?

He would never escape alive. He had been a fool to think that he would. So how long had he been in there? Hours? Days? Weeks, months, years?

Years… The thought made sense. Years without water, without food, without sunlight… Was he really still alive, or suspended in some limbo, a ghost trapped in the same coffin that held his mortal form. And if he was a ghost, could he somehow phase through his physical barrier?

Another punch at the ceiling of his casket told him no.

Without a strand of hope left in his body, Nick began to cry. He was exhausted and scared and he wanted nothing more than to be free of this tomb and be with his friends, be with Greg and Warrick and Grissom and Sara and Catherine and—Oh God, how he missed his friends. He wondered how long they had searched for him before finally giving up. Hours? Days? Weeks, months… years? Were they still looking for him? After years of being missing, the answer was probably no. They had assumed him dead after being underground for so long. In his dream, he remembered that there had been a camera, that they could see him. But looking around, Nick saw no such thing in his prison. They weren't watching him. At least they didn't have to see him suffer. At least they didn't have to see how weak he really was.

He wanted to be in the arms of his mother, to have his brothers and sisters around him, teasing him or playing cops and robbers and always making him the bad guy. He wanted his father to tell him that he was a good boy, that he was proud of Nick, and that he would always watch out for him. Good old Cisco could always cheer Nick up no matter what. He wished he was a little boy again, so his biggest problem was being picked last by his siblings for games, or failing a spelling test. He was so cold, and so tired, and he missed everything about his life above ground.

But at least…

At least, if the last two years were really just pretend, then that meant… That meant that Greg was really OK. That meant that Brass had never really been shot, that Lindsey was never kidnapped, that Greg was never beat up, and best of all, that meant that he and Greg were never trapped in that community center. All of those things had never happened, and Nick could be glad of that.

With shaking breath, and the secure knowledge that Greg and the rest of his friends were indeed safe, Nick felt around the floor of the coffin for the gun he prayed was there. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found it and actually laughed out loud, his fingers wrapping around his only means of escape.

He pulled the gun up and over his chest, putting the barrel of it under his chin, tilting his head back in order to accommodate. His finger trembled as it lightly caressed the trigger. His breaths were ragged and gasping. He was running out of air. He was running out of time. And soon, the ants would come to devour his flesh and he'd be nothing but a skeleton crawling with maggots and beetles and flies, a specimen of intrigue to Grissom or some other entomologically interested CSI of the future when they finally stumbled upon his remains. And they would study the insect colonies and determine how long he had been dead, and maybe by dental records they might even be able to identify Nick. He hoped to God that if his body was ever found, it wasn't by Grissom, or any of his other friends, for their sake. Even if they couldn't recognize him right away, when they finally identified the body, the knowledge would murder them.

But he tried not to think about that as he felt the gun pressing into his flesh. He'd rather think of his family. His parents, his siblings, and his dearest friends. And with their faces swimming around in Nick's skull, he closed his eyes…

But someone was banging on the roof of his grave and his eyes snapped open to see panicked blue eyes, someone screaming, and, best of all, light. Real light streaming in from the stars above, and what did they illuminate but Warrick's fear-struck face.

Was this actually happening? Was that really him? He had dreamed this dream once before and upon waking up where he was had found it to be false. Was his mind just playing yet another trick on him in a last-ditch survival attempt to keep him from ending it all?

There was a shrill whine and Nick frowned as Warrick's face faded into a white light as the whine grew louder in Nick's ears. Something was wrong. Something was different. Was this death?

But no. He blinked away the white and found himself staring at a blue ceiling, the whine no longer a long drone, but an interspersed beeping of an EKG. He was surrounded by people, white coats and stethoscopes, blue scrubs and scalpels. What was going on? Had they pulled him out of the grave? How the hell was he still alive?

And then he felt the pain knocking on the door to his consciousness. It was muted as though something held it back, but he knew it was there. He frowned in confusion and turned his head.

"Doctor, he's regaining consciousness," someone around him said.

"Are the anesthetics wearing off? He's not supposed to be awake yet."

"He probably won't be around for long."

"We're almost done here anyway. I just need to sew him up. So long as he doesn't throw a clot or anything, we should be fine. Give him another small dose of thiopental, that'll knock him out for long enough for us to finish up here."

Nick felt something pierce the skin of his arm and within thirty seconds, the unwelcome blackness returned.


	19. Survivor Guilt

_**Author's Note:**_ Too tired to say anything witty. I have an English paper to write and a rehearsal to go to. Enjoy the chapter. Oh, but I do have one thing to say. Grissom's story is based on a suicide that took place in the Washington DC area Halloween 2004 (minus the jack-o-lantern).

* * *

_"I wish there was something I could say to erase each and every page you've been through, even though it's not my place to save you. I appreciate but can't accept this thank you note that's sealed with your last breath. And I won't stand aside and listen to you give up."_

**The Ataris, "My Reply" from the album "_So Long, Astoria._"**

* * *

Greg sat on his couch and stared long and hard at the silent television, as though trying to turn it on with his mind instead of the remote that lay inches away from his fingers. In truth, he much preferred the machine to stay off. After all the screaming and the crying and the explosions he had heard that night, silence was a welcome respite. 

He was surprised that his head was completely empty. It was so empty, he didn't even wonder why it was empty. It was as though he had stopped having thoughts when he saw Sara and Grissom.

A tinkling sound invaded his ears and he looked up at Grissom who stood in the doorway from the kitchen to the living room, stirring a mug of tea. He set it on the coffee table in front of Greg who simply switched his focus from staring at the TV to staring at the mug.

"Are you going to say anything?" Grissom asked quietly.

Still staring at the mug, Greg merely shrugged in reply.

Grissom sat down next to him on the couch and also stared at the tea he had prepared for his friend, trying to choose his words carefully. Though not generally a people person, Grissom had never found it difficult to talk to Greg. The younger man simply had an energy about him that invited others to just be themselves and be honest. But now, it was as though the Greg Sanders he had known had died and was replaced with a clone who didn't yet understand the proper customs of human interactions.

"I'm not leaving until you say _something_," Grissom told him.

Greg's eyes darted over to Grissom's face and he lifted his hand to wave at him half-heartedly. "Goodbye."

Grissom's eyes narrowed. "At least a sentence maybe?"

Greg nodded. It was a reasonable request. "Goodbye, and thanks for the ride home."

Grissom sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. Greg wasn't about to make this any easier for him. "When I was seventeen, my best friend killed himself."

Greg frowned, the first sign of any emotion crossing his features Grissom had seen since entering his apartment. He looked up at Grissom, confusion etched in his brow, but he didn't speak.

Grissom was the one who couldn't look at him now. So instead, he continued to stare at the mug on the coffee table. "For… years, he would joke with me about what the most interesting way to die would be, or how we were going to go. We were both outcasts, interested in a variety of strange things, often morbid subjects, really, and so it wasn't unusual. Neither of us had any really close friends outside of each other. We talked about guns… A gun to the temple had the potential to miss from the recoil, but a gun in your mouth would be locked in place by your jaw. But did you really want the taste of steal to be the last thing you ever tasted? Anyway, he was… a very lonely person. Brilliant, but… lonely. Old before his time, but still too young to know. The world wasn't ready for some of the ideas he had.

"Senior year of high school, on Halloween, he dressed up like a scarecrow, even put a carved jack-o-lantern over his head like a mask and… hanged himself from a tree within view of the highway with a note pinned on his overalls. Cars drove by on that highway every minute, but no one thought it was anything other than a Halloween decoration. It was eight hours before anyone realized that it was a real body hanging from that tree and not just a scarecrow. The note on his chest? It said, 'Happy Halloween, Gil.' You wouldn't know it if you didn't know him, but it was his way of saying, 'I'm sorry.'"

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "My… My point is, Greg, that regardless of our mutual interests in the macabre, there was a lot of things he did, little things, that I should have done something about. I'm not even saying his death came as a surprise to me, because when I thought about it, it was definitely his style, but… Well, I never wanted to talk about it, really. I was afraid of bringing it up. But I should have."

"Look," Greg said, knowing the direction this talk was going. "If you're feeling guilty about not knowing what to say to make it all better, don't. I'm not your old friend, and I'm not going to kill myself, I just want to be alone for a while to sift through my thoughts, that's all. I can't… I can't think with you here, Grissom."

"That's… not what I meant at all," Grissom said. "Although I can see why it came off that way… No, Greg…" He laughed at his inability to communicate. "That was an attempt to empathize with you. I will… _never_ even remotely come close to ever understanding the horrors you saw tonight, and I'm sorry for that, but… But I know what it's like, to feel like you let someone down, to feel like… Like there was more you could have done to save someone's life."

Greg was startled at the tears that stung his eyes and looked at Grissom in surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, but let out a soft sob which he quickly stifled with his hand. His breathing became shorter and sharper, the tears leaking unwelcome from his eyes and he cursed himself. What had brought on this uncalled for show of emotion? All he wanted was for Grissom to leave him alone and he wasn't cooperating. They were tears of frustration, not grief, not remorse, and definitely not guilt.

He wanted to tell him to leave, that he'd heard enough, that he wanted to go to sleep. And yet, the words that came out of Greg's mouth weren't the ones he wanted to say. "They were… too young, they were all too young… None of it was their fault… He felt he owed me… She should never have… I should never have kissed her… And Nick, he… He promised I'd be first… Oh God, why do I have to be so stupid…"

He was sobbing now, and he felt a hand on his back as he ducked his head between his knees, letting the grief flow freely from his eyes. It was too late to stop it now.

Though none of the things that tumbled out of Greg's mouth made much sense to Grissom, he calmly sat there next to his broken friend. This was what he knew was inevitable. Survivor guilt, and Greg had been avoiding it like the plague by trying not to feel anything at all. It was better he faced it now rather than later though, when it all compressed inside of him and exploded from the pressure like an atom bomb. Grissom had learned that quickly enough. But now that he had gotten what he wanted, for Greg to face his feelings, he didn't know how to act. He still didn't consider himself well-versed in the comforting area. So he just sat there next to him and let him cry, keeping his hand stalwartly on his back, a gentle reminder to Greg that he was still there, that he would never abandon him.

Soon enough, Greg straightened up again, his arms crossed over himself as he clenched his fists at his side and rocked back and forth momentarily, closing his eyes tight as though willing himself to calm down, but it was impossible now. He had unlocked the floodgates, and it was all pouring forth.

"Jesus _Christ_, I never wanted _this_!" he growled angrily through his tears. He leaned his head back on the back of the couch, trying to control his breathing. "Do you even fucking hear me up there, you smug almighty bastard?! I didn't ask to _live_, Grissom, I stopped praying to live _hours_ ago, I just wanted it all to _end_, and now Nick… Now Nick…" He couldn't even finish his thought and the fact infuriated him. "Why the _fuck_ does God like to play so many _mind_ games with us? Everyone else in that building deserved to live, deserved to go home to their families, and now, now they're all… _dammit_, I _told_ him, I told him that he couldn't _die_ on me! He can't, because he was… he was trying to protect _me_ a lot of the time, and I… why couldn't I just return the damn favor, huh? Why couldn't I just step up to the plate and… _fuck_, I made my peace with God, I thought I wouldn't have to see him… Oh God, Isabella… Jared, Neil, Claire… Grissom, you'd never met a sweeter bunch of people, I mean… Nick… Nick, I need you to be OK, just be OK…" He raked his hands across his scalp and balled them into fists full of hair, pinning his elbows together against his cheeks as though trying to protect his face from some concussive force.

Tentatively, Grissom slid his hand across Greg's shoulders. Grissom pushed Greg's arms down and his friend instinctively leant into his fatherly embrace.

Grissom didn't say another word. There wasn't a word left to say. Anything to reassure Greg would be a lie or a promise he wasn't sure he could keep. He couldn't tell him Nick would be OK. He couldn't tell him why he had survived when so many others hadn't. He couldn't tell him why God let these things happen. But he could hold him. And there was one thing that he could tell him, one that wasn't a lie or an empty promise.

"Greg," he said quietly. "It's not your fault."

Greg didn't reply, but just kept crying angrily at all the things he couldn't change.

* * *

It was hours before they heard anything from the doctors, and Sara had fallen asleep in the chair, Catherine's head resting in her lap as she took up her usual uncomfortable position stretched out across the chairs. Both women were snoring. Warrick on the other hand was wide awake, the migraine from hell burning a hole through his skull, reminding him that alcohol only tends to make problems worse, not better. 

Nick had been moved out of the OR after a few hours and the trio had migrated downstairs to the ICU waiting room where Brass had joined them after his shift ended. Grissom was still nowhere to be found, but Warrick figured he was trying to connect with, from what he heard, a very disconnected Greg.

Brass entered the room with two cups of coffee and handed one to Warrick. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Just noon," Warrick replied, having already checked his watch two minutes before. He tended to look at it every ten minutes or so, willing time to go faster. Whereas in the early morning, he had dreaded the hour mark, now he just wanted time to fast forward so he would know something about Nick.

Finally, a doctor entered the room and looked at the chart. "Er… Mr. and Mrs. Stokes?"

"They're on their way from Texas," Warrick replied. "Should be here in a few hours. In the meantime, you have us. We're his collea— friends. His very good friends."

The doctor looked skeptical, then looked at his chart again. "A, uh, Gil Grissom here?"

Brass and Warrick looked at each other momentarily before Brass stepped forward and showed his badge. "I'm Captain Brass, I believe I'm privy to the information concerning CSI Stokes."

The doctor nodded. "Alright. I'm Dr. Reynolds, I operated on your friend. He was lucky. Unlike plenty of other people in that community center, his wound narrowly avoided piercing his spleen, although it did cause irreparable damage to his left kidney, which we had to remove. The bullet ripped through his large intestine, but we could repair that. An inch higher, we would have needed to do a splenectomy if he didn't bleed out at the scene, and an inch to the left, it would have pierced his stomach and the acids would have poisoned him in twenty minutes. That was one _very_ ill-aimed shot, lucky for Nick."

"When can we see him?"

The question had come from Sara, who was awake and watching them. Catherine, too, had sat up and was paying close attention to the conversation.

Dr. Reynolds looked at them momentarily and nodded. "I understand your anxiety to see him, but right now he's still under the effects of the anesthetics and after that, he badly needs his rest. I encourage you to go home, get some rest yourselves, and come back tomorrow when he's coherent and awake."

Sara rose to her feet. "When will the anesthetics wear off?" she asked.

Dr. Reynolds looked at his watch. "In about an hour, but—"

"Look," she said. "I just want to see him. To see him… breathing. That's all. We won't… We won't bother him. Can't we just see him?"

Dr. Reynolds' eyes narrowed in thought, but then he slowly nodded. "You can see him now before you leave. He's still unconscious, so don't expect him to say much. And he's a little worse for wear— he won't be jumping up to do a jig for a while now, I can tell you that."

Dr. Reynolds hugged the chart to his chest and looked at each of them in turn, taking a deep breath. "Well," he said. "If you could follow me…"

The four of them filed out of the room and followed the doctor down the hall. He opened the door to room 209 and quietly entered, followed by Nick's friends.

He was breathing. That had been all Warrick had wanted to see. That he was breathing. It was all he could do to restrain himself from falling to his knees and sobbing like a child. But he did a very good job of remaining composed. Catherine wasn't so lucky. She let out a sharp gasp and then her fingers flew to her lips in order to prevent anything worse from escaping. He could hear her breaths tremble as she tried to keep a hold on herself.

Sara took a step forward, but couldn't find the courage to get any closer. He looked so fragile and pale hooked up to those machines, as though he were made of fine painted glass. This was chillingly bizarre for Sara, who was too used to thinking of Nick as something of a superhero almost. Indestructible. After all the things he had been through, he had always come out of it relatively unscathed, physically at least, and whatever didn't kill him just seemed to add to his strength. It was amazing what one tiny piece of metal could do to the human body. Sara had seen it time after time, and yet it still fascinated her. It was a classic example of the David and Goliath story. A small stone can fell even the largest of giants.

Brass went even further than Sara did into the room, far enough to touch the linen bed sheets that Nick was wrapped tightly in. It occurred to the rest of them that out of all of them there, Brass was the only one who knew what it felt like to be shot. They all wondered at the thoughts that filtered through his head at that moment.

They didn't really have to wonder that hard, because Brass was thinking much the same things as they were. Mostly, he was scared for their friend, just like the rest of them. He wanted Nick to open his eyes and grin at them, but he knew that at that moment, that might have been too much to ask. He prayed that when he did awake, he didn't have the same pain as Brass had had. He hoped that they gave him better drugs. But mostly, he hoped that the emotional baggage he carried out with him from that community center wouldn't be too heavy for him to carry. He also hoped that Nick was smart enough to know that he didn't have to carry that baggage alone.

The ventilator made breathing noises as it pumped the air in and out of his tired lungs. The EKG sang the music of his steady heart beat. And at that moment, those were the most soothing sounds that any of them could hear.

* * *

When Greg had finally fallen asleep, Grissom had carefully extricated himself from his tangled fears. He stood watching him as his chest rose and fell rhythmically with the tiniest frown distorting his features. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, but Grissom knew better. 

He took the untouched tea he had prepared for Greg and nursed it quietly. It had long since cooled, but Grissom didn't mind. Making his way over to the kitchen, he wondered if he should stay, so someone would be there when Greg woke up. But it was late, at least for a nocturnal being like Grissom, and he was tired, and Greg had been pressing him to leave ever since he'd arrived.

He finished off the rest of the tea and quickly cleaned the mug out in the sink before setting it out to dry. He walked back into the living room and looked around.

Greg's apartment was a charming mess. His coffee table was covered with unread magazines and empty pizza boxes, the occasional DVD case that was open to reveal no disk inside. The magazines, Grissom noted, ran the gamut from new National Geographics to old Playboys, and this made him smile slightly. Grissom saw a sock next to an inside-out pair of jeans on the floor by his bedroom door, and a shirt slung over the back of the couch. There was a neglected guitar in the corner that looked like it was more for decoration than actual use. A Salvador Dali painting hung crookedly on a wall above an ebony cabinet with a set of turntables on top. The cabinet seemed to be the most organized thing in the apartment, with a multitude of CDs and vinyl, all organized alphabetically. Next to the cabinet was a bookshelf, the top two shelves of which were filled with books that seemed to be collecting dust. The shelves beneath it housed yet more CDs, as well as scattered knickknacks and souvenirs, some from countries Grissom hadn't known Greg had ever been to. A Dreamcast game system was hooked up to the TV and its tangled controllers were strewn haphazardly across the floor along with various games and their cases.

He realized then that one could learn a lot from a person just by looking at the state of their living quarters. It was true, Greg's apartment was far from clean, but it screamed of his spontaneous personality, his love for music and quest for fun and even the smallest touch of class and eccentricity with the Salvador Dali piece and touristy curios. You can know someone so well, and yet they can still surprise you. It was something that fascinated Grissom about Greg. He was never predictable.

As Greg turned over on the couch to get more comfortable, Grissom pulled out his phone and dialed quietly. It rang a few moments before he got an answer.

"Yeah, Sara? How's…" She cut him off excitedly and gave him an immediate update on Nick, and Grissom heaved a huge sigh of relief, the tension in his shoulders already dissolving. "That's terrific. Oh God, I'm so glad to hear that, and Greg will be too, now Sara, listen. I need you to do me a favor…" 


	20. Angelic Corpses

_**Author's Note:**_ I forgot to mention. I based Greg's apartment after my brother's, as they have much in common. Add a shisha pipe in the corner, and I described my brother's place. But I see it as typical Greg, too. The woman who hanged herself in DC did it around halloween within view of a highway and no one noticed for hours, that's the true part of that story. I just thought that was sad. Uh... I like this chapter. Thanks to Kegel with help on the dream sequence. I did something very sneaky here, too, props for any of you who can figure out how I cheated here (and Kegel isn't allowed to guess). It's VERY sneaky. You probably won't even notice. And for you shippers out there: tilt your head any which way you want, read into things as you will, but this fic isn't going anywhere romantic with these characters. Not today.

* * *

_"When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares."_

**Henri Nouwen**

* * *

He was sitting at the bar in the diner by the lab. She was bussing tables. It was late at night, and her shift was almost over. He had been watching her all evening. Her long ebony hair pulled back in a light ponytail, her mocha eyes sparkling in the florescent lights. Her skin was milky smooth and he longed to trace a trail across it, to lay her down on cotton sheets and draw circles on her tanned skin from dusk until dawn. Every so often, she would toss a look his way, and he would always avoid her gaze, looking away in shame. 

Finally, she came over to the bar, knocking his arm which held his coffee and it spilt just a little onto the counter.

"Oops," she said, and she smiled at him with ivory teeth. She mopped up her mistake, and he reached out, his fingers softly caressing her forearm. She slowed and looked up at him. "You know you can't hide in here forever."

"I'll protect you," he said, looking into her eyes.

She reached out a hand and tenderly cupped his cheek. "Oh, querido…" she cooed. "You seek to protect what is a song on the wind. A distant lullaby hummed by the fireflies at night. I am not what I am."

He rose to his feet and traced her hairline gently, cherishing the feel of her silken hair beneath his fingertips. "I don't even know you and yet I find I miss you."

She leant close to him, her eyes half-closed, her tender lips gently fluttering against his own as she whispered. "You are the most beautiful mistake I ever made."

They kissed and his hands slowly slid down her arms, the bittersweet taste of coffee and tobacco igniting his taste buds. She smelt softly of lilies and it made him feel safe in her arms.

The scene around them changed and he was in a dimly lit bedroom with the blinds half closed, her naked form sprawled out over cotton sheets. She moved her leg up, sliding her foot against her calf as she smiled at him, ironically coy now that she was completely exposed to him.

He smiled back at her, completely breathless as he just watched her as she closed her eyes and tilted her head back. They knew each other intimately, and one could say that in that moment they made love for the first time, although he didn't even touch her. He didn't even want to. She was a vision, a miracle, and he needed her desperately. The light blinked at them through the horizontal blinds, casting golden shadows across her sacred body, highlighting bits of dust that floated in the air like particles from some unearthly realm.

Without a word, he lay down next to her, never once taking his eyes off of her. She delicately caressed his bare chest, her fingers tracing the lines of his trim figure.

"You're unreal," he said quietly.

She smiled and carefully pushed the curls away from his face. "Stay with me. Just for a little while, until earth and sky fall into each other and the oceans flood the streets."

"There are things I need to be doing…" he whispered. "I can't hide in here forever."

"I am envious of you," she said. "You saw the sunrise today."

"Baby, you are my sunrise," he replied.

She kissed him softly. "Te quiero, mi corazon."

"I love it when you speak Spanish," he said with a grin.

"The sun will set soon," she cooed softly. "And you will be far from me. And it will be cold, and it will be dark, but there will be a time in many years when you will return to the fireflies and the lullabies and there will be no more goodbyes."

"I don't understand…" he began but she held a finger to his lips.

"Sometimes we forget ourselves in the limbo hours between midnight and morning. Not quite tomorrow, but no longer yesterday. Sometimes, we wish we could stay forgotten forever."

"I don't want to leave quite yet," Greg said.

She hushed him softly, stroking his hair. "Hush, little baby. Don't say a word. You will dry those tears, goodbye fears, and you'll chase me away with a couple of beers. But I will never leave you. I filter through you like a candle in alabaster. And when the funeral flowers are gone, the days will continue to go on. But when you wake up screaming… I will learn the lullaby that sets you to sleep again, and teach it to the voice who sings it best." She cupped his chin in her hands, making sure he was looking deep into her eyes. "You must never stay forgotten for too long, querido. There's a perfect graveyard of broken strangers like you who stayed forgotten for so long they forgot their way home again. You have to go back, mi amor."

He kissed her again and when he pulled away, he breathed cigarette smoke out of his mouth. "Tell me a joke," he said to her.

Her lips twitched. "Imagine a flock of birds," she began. "It's the end of October and they'd forgotten it was time to fly south. In the confusion, they end up flying east and they get caught in a hurricane." She looked away from him, towards the window and its slivers of sunlight. "They fall out of the sky like multicolored angels…"

"They have bullets in them," Greg whispered. "Where the storm shot them dead."

Her hand clasped his and guided it over her stomach, her side, her breast, her collarbone, until it rested on her neck and he felt something wet and sticky matting the back of her hair. As though touched by fire, he pulled away from her and sat up instantly. She followed suit, propping herself up on her elbow as she looked at him. The blood trickled down from the bullet hole in the base of her skull and painted dark crimson dreams on the canvas of her café au lait back.

"We all have a little lead in us, querido," she said with wide brown eyes.

He scrambled to his feet and off the bed, his vision defiled by the blood that slid across her skin. She pursued him, her skin melting off her body until she was little more than a skeleton with huge brown eyes in sunken sockets. She reached out a bony hand and barely touched his cheek before she turned to dust before his eyes.

And he was left alone in the shadowy bedroom, the corpses of multicolored fallen angels littering the landfill of his thoughts.

* * *

He awoke suddenly, his body tense, his spirit ready to fly away, but he had forgotten what he was dreaming about. He knew it had been a nightmare, but it was lost in his subconscious memory, and he was glad of that. He didn't know if he would be able to deal with his demons, even in the daylight. 

Daylight…

The way the red sun spilt through the crack in the curtains, it looked to be pretty late in the day. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. For a moment, he wondered why he was in his living room instead of his bedroom. As he stretched, he strode towards the kitchen to make a quick dinner before going into work.

He saw the cleaned mug drying on a towel, the only dish in his sink that had actually been washed, and all the gory details of what had happened that morning flooded his consciousness and he violently wished he had forgotten everything. For a few moments of bliss, he had felt like his old self again and now, he thought maybe he wouldn't go into work after all.

But regardless of Grissom's suggestion to take a few days off, Greg was violently anxious to jump in and get back to work. Earlier he had thought it would be impossible for him to look at another dead body and work the case in a detached manner ever again. But he knew he needed to test that theory, and if he couldn't leave his problems at home tonight, then he would never be able to.

Greg was an expert at leaving his demons behind. The day of his final assessment as a CSI he had heard that his grandmother had died, but he had left that at home. His first day back after the lab explosion, he had actually been afraid to return, but he'd left these phobias at home. And his first case after he'd been beaten, he had been wondering if killers felt like him after their first kill, but he had left that at home as well. Indeed, Greg was an expert at separating his personal problems from his work. So this should be no different.

He was afraid though. And not in the same way that he had been afraid of the lab after the explosion. No, he was afraid that the next scene he processed would be the death of a young Latina with raven hair and chocolate brown eyes. He was afraid he'd see the freckled face of a terrified teen, or the cold dead eyes of a young man with so much left to do. He was afraid that he would have to impersonally pluck hairs from a pregnant corpse who as she died had wailed about her lost child instead of her own pain. He was afraid that in every victim he tried to help, he would see their faces, and hear their stories all over again.

So he grabbed an apple and bit into it, looking at his watch. 6:30. Well, he supposed it wasn't too early to go into work. If anything, he could bribe Grissom to give him the good cases since he was punctual. He would pretend that nothing had ever happened, and that everything was OK, even though everything clearly wasn't. Hours ago, Grissom had witnessed him breakdown, something he had hoped Grissom would never see. He felt exposed now, like Grissom had seen him naked, and it made him feel exceptionally embarrassed and awkard. But Greg was an expert at leaving things behind when he went to work, and he would leave the awkwardness at home. At work, he was professional, if a little goofy, CSI Greg Sanders. He could be normal, human Greg again when he was alone, and no one could see him break down. Never again.

Leaving his apartment and locking it, he leaned against the door and took a deep breath, praying to God for strength. And then, with that smile he was so famous for, he clicked his heals and skipped down the stairs instead of taking the elevator in order to get his blood pumping. He'd stop off by Starbucks on the way to seize a caffeine pick-me-up which he knew he would desperately need to keep up appearances.

He was jogging over to his car when his eye caught sight of something unusual and he slowed to a stop. A familiar white Toyota Prius was parked outside his building and on closer inspection had an occupant slumped over the wheel in the driver's seat.

Greg was immediately annoyed as he walked over there with folded arms to see the familiar brown hair sprawled over slender arms that the woman was using for a pillow. Cracking a light smile, he held his fist up to the window, hesitated, then knocked as loudly as he could, making the woman jump and hit her head on the dashboard. She rubbed her eyes and wrinkled her forehead in pain as she tried to will the throbbing away before she looked to the window to see Greg waving at her, an expression that read "Surprise!" scrawled across his features.

Sara Sidle was not amused as she rolled down her window. "There are more humane ways to wake someone up."

"And there are more discreet ways to stalk someone," Greg returned. "So what, did Grissom send you here to baby-sit me?"

She raised her eyebrows in mock innocence. "Me? No, I was just driving by on my way in and was wondering if you wanted a ride."

"Uh huh," Greg said. "So do you always sleep and drive or is this a special occasion?"

Sara smiled sheepishly at him. "Look, he's just worried about you, OK? We all are. And I was happy to have an excuse to come see you, I mean, to be honest, it feels like…" But she trailed off. She didn't want to burden him with her feelings, not when he was dealing with his own problems. "Hey, you know, I was wondering," she said, abruptly changing the subject. "Have you seen Nick yet?"

Greg was suddenly very withdrawn. He wouldn't even look her in the eye anymore. "Oh, I, uh… He needs sleep, right? I mean… when did he get out of surgery?"

"A few hours ago," Sara said. "But I mean… The doctors say you can sit with him, even if he's not awake. And it's really good to just see him breathing, you know? It's nice having you both back. Seeing you smile again, I mean… There were times there when I honestly thought that I would never see that again. Does that… does that mean I gave up on you?" She seemed horrified at this thought, as though it was the last thing she wanted.

But Greg flashed her a reassuring smile. "No, babe. There were times when I thought I'd never see you again either. It doesn't mean anything except that we were scared."

Sara returned the smile, but she was irritated at herself for unloading her feelings on him. She was there to be the shoulder for _him_ to lean on, not the other way around.

"Get in the car," she said. "I'll take you over to Desert Palms."

Greg looked like a deer caught in the headlights. "What? No, we have to get to work, I mean, shift starts in—"

"We have time, Greg," Sara said. "Besides, Grissom will understand if you're a little late, and even if you don't come in at all today. You've been through a lot."

"I know what I've been through, I don't need you reminding me," Greg snapped, a little too coolly.

The pain was present in Sara's eyes only for a moment and no longer. "Please get in the car, Greg? We don't have to go to the hospital. I can take you wherever you want."

The quiet smoothness of her voice lured Greg into her trap as he closed his eyes and sighed his consent. Without a word, he moved around the Prius, opened the passenger door and slid silently inside.

Sara took off immediately without even asking Greg where he wanted to go.

"So we're going to the lab, right?" Greg asked. "Because you said you'd take me where I wanted to go and I want to go there."

"I'm taking you to the hospital," Sara replied. "Because Nick will want to see you when he wakes up."

Greg watched her momentarily before he brusquely reached for the wheel and pulled, making her swerve and she reflexively slammed on the breaks.

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you, Greg, you might have _killed_ us!" she screamed.

"Yeah, well I might have been killed a lot of times tonight," Greg retorted nastily. "I don't want to go to that hospital, Sara, and I don't want to be tricked into it either. I'm not just some stupid kid that you can manipulate, OK, and you are definitely not my mother so stop trying to tell me what's best for me, because I can figure that out on my own."

Her lip trembled slightly before she looked away from him and out the window. She didn't speak. Greg felt minutely guilty and he rolled his eyes.

"Sara…" he began in an effort to coax her to speak again, but she didn't bite. He sighed and gazed out his own window, refusing to look at someone who refused to look at him. "I'm sorry I snapped at you like that, but… It's hard for me to do this, to try and… and leave myself behind when this darkness has entangled itself with my bloodstream and I can't leave it behind like normal, and I really want to. I just want to go on with life. Nick is OK. That's all I need to know. I don't need to see him like that. I don't _want_ to see him like that. You don't understand. I saw him get _shot_. I saw the look on his face the millisecond he felt that bullet touch his skin. I saw him hold his stomach, saw him fall to his knees and then to the floor and I really, _really_ thought that he was going to die and I was so scared, Sara. I was more scared for him than I was for myself. So… So I would really appreciate it if you just… forget I said all of this just now, take me to the lab, and act like this whole sordid affair never even happened today. Can you do that for me, Sara?"

When she didn't reply for more than a minute, Greg finally risked a glance in her direction. She was continuing to stare out the window, her hands gripping the wheel with white knuckles. Her silence was beginning to bother Greg.

"Look, Sara…"

"No, _you_ look Greg," Sara said suddenly, her hair flying as she snapped her head to face him. "You're right. Of course you're _right_. You're damaged, you're the one who's hurting, and I'm the one who is supposed to help you feel better and I can't, and I get that, I really, really do, but what the _fuck_ do you think we were doing sitting outside listening to guns go off every hour, never really knowing for sure if either one of you was still alive or not? I told you that I imagined you dead, and it's a sight that will haunt me for the rest of my life. And I'm sorry for everything that you went through tonight, and my stomach churned to see Nick like he was in there, but when I saw you, standing on your own two feet, helping to look after Nick, I thought, 'My God, he's really OK.' Do you know how long it took me to get that through my head? I stood there in the doorway for three minutes before I actually called out your name. And then, when I saw that look in your eyes, I knew in an instant that you _weren't_ OK, that you were wrong somehow, and it was like a shot to the heart, Greg to see you look so dead. Nick may have been bleeding, but _you_ were the one who seemed corpse-like to me. And you were so cool and callous at the scene, I thought you sold your soul just to make sure Nick got out OK. And I was scared because you were pushing me away, and I was so worried about you for so long."

Her face was livid with indignation but the tears began to blaze trails down her fiery cheeks. She ignored them and continued, desperate to make her point and no longer wanting to hide her pain from him for his sake. "We are all _hurting_, Greg and it isn't something you can just run away from. You can't just go back into work today like nothing happened!"

"And why _not_?!" Greg retorted angrily. "Why _can't_ I Sara? I mean, it's what we're supposed to do, isn't it? Move on? I'm just trying to do that as fast as possible. I'm a _king_ at moving on, Sara if you would just _let_ me. I've moved on from a lot of things in life, things that don't even strike the smallest cord in me anymore. My grandmother's death, the explosion, the beating, the trial, _you_, I just—"

He realized what he had said a moment too late and inhaled a curt gasp, hoping beyond hope that she hadn't caught his mistake. He snapped his jaw shut, swallowed, and tried to continue like nothing had happened.

"Listen, all I'm saying is, shit happens. It sucks and it will hurt for a little while, and you grieve for a day and then you move on because there's still a whole life out there to live. So please, Sara. Just take me into work. And if you want to talk to someone about how you feel, well then… talk to someone else. Because while I want you to feel better, I can't handle that right now. Not today." He looked up and she was frowning at him.

"Me?" she whispered in confusion and Greg closed his eyes, rolling them behind his lids.

"Just forget it, OK?"

But a smile curled at her lips and she laughed, almost with relief. "Oh God, Greg…" she said. "I never thought that was anything more than a puppy dog crush."

"Yeah, it was," Greg replied. "Whatever, you were new, you had that spark, I was a kid, it was like… The hot new girl in your high school. Or… the sexy substitute teacher, you know? Unattainable. Never mind, the point is it's… nothing now. Listen, Sara…" He had been unable to look at her until then and he tilted his head up to meet her awaiting gaze. She was glad to see his eyes were soft and quiet, not the cold brown icebergs she had seen before. He was trying to tell her something important, and he was searching for the words in her eyes. "I've known you for seven years. And you have seriously proven to be one of the most amazing friends I have ever had. And I wouldn't trade that for _anything_. There is nothing inside this world or out of it that I wouldn't face for you. I realized that tonight. I realized that I never told you guys just how glad I really am for your friendship. Especially you.

"I… I remember watching you guys from the lab, before I became a CSI, and I was thinking… _wow_. I mean, these guys are really tight, you know? And then I'd look over at Mandy or Hodges and they'd be in their own world, and I really didn't know much about them, and Hodges could be such a… Never mind. But Nick, he would always come in and joke with me, mess with me, talk to me, you know? And I… I never had a brother growing up. And my mom stifled plenty of my chances at being cool in high school you know, so I was never exactly popular. I had friends, but…I'm digressing. The point is, that I wanted that. That familiarity you all had with each other. I didn't just want the playful banter when one of you came to drop something off or pick something up from me in DNA, I wanted it _all the time_. Why do you think it took me so long to spit out the results for your evidence? I wanted to keep you guys around me for as long as possible. I tried to make you _want_ to come see me more often. I tried harder to make you guys laugh. I wanted to get out in the field with you. I wanted to see how you reacted to my bad jokes on the scene. I wanted to know what you guys meant when you talked about the adrenaline rush of a new case. I wanted to be a part of that world. And when I was, when Grissom let me in, it was like he was opening this door to this house, and there was a fire in the hearth and a family and I… I was home again. For the first time since leaving San Gabriel…"

"What are you trying to say, here, Greg?" Sara asked quietly.

He gave her a half smile, but it looked like the first genuine one she had seen on his face all day. "I'm trying to say that you're my best friends," he replied. "I don't know if that makes me pathetic that my best friends are the people I work with or—"

"Hush, Greg," Sara whispered, beaming. "We've been through a lot together. And you know, you… and Nick… and all of them, they're my best friends too. You're absolutely right, Greg. We are a family."

"So what do you say?" Greg asked. "Can we just go to work today, Sara? Can we just start moving on?"

Sara knew that inside, Greg was screaming, but on the outside he was pleading for her to let him live out his denial. He would face his demons when he was good and ready. But for now, she would humor him.

"No," she said, and his expression became one of utter exhaustion, but Sara was grinning. "No, I think instead, we're going to have a little fun. Have you ever been to Club Eros?"

Greg smirked at her. "Why Sara Sidle, playing hookie? I would never have guessed. And you actually know the club scene, too, I'm impressed."

"Well," Sara said smugly, "I _do_ sometimes leave my apartment, you know."

"No you don't," Greg said, laughing.

"So?" Sara asked. "How about it? I take you to a club, you meet a few girls, maybe have a few drinks…"

"It's a little early for clubbing," Greg pointed out. "What are we going to do until then?"

Sara grinned at him. "Paint the town red. We're in Vegas, Greg. Never a dull moment."

"Thanks for doing this for me, Sara," Greg said sincerely.

"Hey," Sara replied with a shrug as she put the car into gear again. "It's just what best friends do."


	21. Courage and Cowardice

_**Author's Note:**_ Oooh... my educated guess is... three more chapters after this one. However I could do a 180 and make it longer. I'm not nearly as far ahead as I'd like to be (only about a chapter ahead now, but I have plans...) Ideally, I'd be finished with a story by this point so close to where I want to wrap it up. Anyways! Your reviews are the highlight of my online experience (I adore hearing from you guys!) so keep up your insightful comments. And... forget about the "cheating" thing in the last chapter. It wasn't really cheating. LOVE YOU GUYS! Also, another quote twofer just because I was talking to Kegel and realized they went so well together. Even if they're little irrelevant, I'm running out of my quotes resource (I didn't know it would be this many chapters) so, uh... deal with it.

**Shameless Plug:** I made my first fan vid today. Ever. And it's for CSI too. It's two minutes long and it's on YouTube. "Natalie: Lost In A House of Leaves" a short psychological thriller by Carly. I would link it but FanFiction-Dot-Net isn't cool with that so... It's in my profile. Or just copy/paste this: http://www.youtube. com/watch?v "Equal Sign" 003XOdaMHL0

and take out the space between ". com" and replace "Equal Sign" with an actual equal sign. :oS (FF makes things difficult)

Thanks, you guys rock.

* * *

_"You can always count on Americans to do the right thing - after they've tried everything else."_**  
**

**Winston Churchill**

**_  
_**_"Stuff happens . . . And it's untidy, and freedom's untidy, and free people are free to make mistakes and commit crimes and do bad things."_

**********Donald Rumsfeld, April 11, 2003, following the infamous looting and pillaging of Baghdad.**

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, Nick half-expected to see black. But he didn't. Instead, blinding florescent lights burned his corneas and he thought that maybe he had gone blind. His whole body ached, in particular his gut and he wondered maybe if they had removed his organs to sell on the black market. He didn't want to look down for fear of seeing a gaping hole in his torso like a cartoon character hit with a canon ball. His throat was dry and hoarse, his eyelids heavy. He was exceptionally groggy. It reminded him vaguely of the time he had gotten his tonsils out when he was a kid. He had woken up in a similar fashion, dazed and aching, his throat on fire. But this was different. He no longer had his tonsils. So what had been removed this time? What was he doing here, in these white linen sheets, in this impossibly clean room that reeked of ammonia? Oh how he hated hospitals. 

"I'm so sorry…"

Nick recognized the voice before it had even sounded by the way his old friend had inhaled. Did he react? Nick felt intrinsically that there was no need for apologies. What did he feel the need to apologize for?

To Nick's surprise, Warrick continued. It was only then that Nick realized that Warrick hadn't noticed Nick was awake. "You know, I talked to you. I mean, well, I thought I did. I dunno, I got a little drunk and… It doesn't matter. But I think I find it easier to talk to you when I know you're not listening. I… I didn't do anything, Nick. I heard you were in there, and I just ran in the opposite direction. I didn't feel like there was anything I could do. I deserted you to hide in a bar and I think that's one of the worst things I could have done. I mean, Catherine and Sara at least tried to help out, Grissom never left that FBI van, and Brass and Sofia fought like crazy to track down suspects, but me? I just drank tequila until my mind exploded. And a whiskey on the rocks for you. Even though you don't like whiskey. You're more of a rum man if I recall… Maybe I'll buy you a bottle of Captain Morgan. Maybe you can forgive me then."

"I see nothing to forgive."

Silence followed the scratchy whisper that echoed off the sterile walls. Neither friend said anything for what seemed like hours. Warrick was too terrified to move, and Nick was way too tired.

Finally, Warrick couldn't contain himself. "… N-Nick?"

"No, it's your fucking conscience." It was an anemic attempt to be sarcastic, but it launched Warrick into another few minutes of silent contemplation. Nick knew that if he wanted to continue this conversation, he would have to participate a little bit more, and it was hard. His throat was so dry, and every time his chest moved with his breathing, his lungs ached. He felt as though a grand piano was resting on top of him and he lifted it with every inhalation. He felt the tubes in his nose and heard the ventilator sighing somewhere to his left, and yet he still found it difficult to breathe. He closed his eyes and turned his head to the side. So if Warrick didn't want to speak, then neither did he. Breathing was a foreign task to him at that moment, and just the few phrases he had already whispered had taken a lot out of him.

Regardless, Nick began to grow tired of the silence. He wanted his friend back. "How long?" he gasped, hoping to get his point across.

Warrick blinked at him, then folded his arms across his chest. "Four days," he replied. "You've been weaving in and out of it. But the important thing is that you're OK now."

"Greg?"

Warrick leaned forward in his chair and Nick turned his head slowly to see his reaction. His hands were clasped together as his forearms rested on his knees. "Greg is… doing fine. Considering."

"Fine?"

"He's been back at work," Warrick said, a little louder. "Doing really well too. Cracking a few jokes again. He's been asking after you too."

"When was he…" Nick coughed. "When was he last here?"

Warrick chewed on his lip and was quiet again. "Well, actually…"

Nick nodded. "He hasn't been here at all, has he?"

"It's not that he isn't worried about you," Warrick said quickly.

"I know," Nick said, staring up at the ceiling. "The others?"

"They've been around," Warrick replied. "In and out, checking up on you… It's well into shift now, they're probably all working but I'll give Grissom a call. They'll want to know you're awake." He fished out his phone from his pocket.

"'Rick?" Nick said, making Warrick look up in response. Nick tried to smile. "Do I still get that rum?"

Warrick laughed quietly and nodded. "I'll get right on that. Captain Morgan?"

"Bacardi," Nick insisted. "I deserve it."

Warrick nodded. "Sure thing." He turned back to his phone.

"And…" Nick added, making his friend look up again at him curiously. "You did fine, Warrick. Just fine."

Warrick smiled at him genuinely before holding the phone to his ear. "Thanks, Nick."

* * *

"Who wants to bet COD was decapitation?" Greg smirked as his eyes rolled up to look at Catherine through the sunroof. 

"Well…" she said. "He could have been dead _before_ he hit the overpass…"

"Right," Greg said. "Because dead guys stick their heads out of sunroofs all the time to scream at girls." He tugged at the corpse's tuxedo, smoothing out a wrinkle that had been bothering him, and made his way out of the limo, straightening up to look at Catherine across the roof of the car. "I think I saw the head a ways back, would you care to do the honors?"

She cocked an eyebrow. "I'll rock-paper-scissors you for it."

Greg put his fist on top of the car in front of their corpse and Catherine extended her arm. They were just about to reveal their choices when Catherine's buzzing phone caught her attention. She held up a finger and Greg rolled his eyes as she reached for her phone.

"Willows," she greeted the receiver.

Grissom's voice was even, but there was a hint of a smile to his tone. "Catherine, Warrick just called. Nick's awake. He wants to see us."

Excitement began in her chest and reached out tingling tentacles throughout her whole body as she grinned. "Great," she said. "We'll be over there as soon as we finish up with this scene."

She looked up at Greg who shrugged impatiently at her. "Well? Rock-paper-scissors?"

"I'll get the head," Catherine replied. "And then after this, we'll go see Nick. He's awake."

Greg went pale. "Uh… But we're working!" he called after her as she headed down the street.

She grinned at him over her shoulder. "Oh come on, Greg!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air. "Don't you want to talk to Nick?"

Greg returned the smile, but his eyes were filled with fear as he waved at her. "O… OK," he said through his plastic smile. When she was out of sight, he raked his hands through his hair and cursed under his breath. Would he be able to handle it, seeing Nick like that? Even though he was awake now… Would he be able to see his friend looking so weak?

He looked at the tuxedo-clad dead body and shook his head. "Let's hope I can keep my head…" He was quiet a moment before he frowned. "Oh, you're dead, what do you care if I make bad puns?"

* * *

When they finally got there, Greg noticed that Catherine couldn't seem to wait for the elevator to stop on Nick's floor. She kept bouncing back and forth on her feet. Meanwhile, Greg was dreading it. When the elevator doors finally pinged open, Catherine jumped out and Greg followed her with a slow trudge. The more he could delay this meeting, the better. 

Catherine seemed to notice when she was a good twenty feet ahead of him in the hall and she stopped and turned to look at him. "What's the matter with you? Nick is waiting!"

"I know," Greg said. "My shoes are untied, I don't want to trip."

Catherine cocked an eyebrow as she glanced at his feet then up to his face again. "OK, even if that were true, which it clearly isn't, walking slowly isn't the solution, tying them is." She closed the distance between them. "What's _really_ the matter, sweetie?"

Greg shook his head slowly, looking at a point beyond Catherine's shoulder. "I'm… not sure, Catherine."

Her smile faded and she put a kind hand on his shoulder. "Hey," she said. "It's OK to be a little scared."

He was startled that she could read him so well. He had never really considered their relationship to be particularly close, but he had always valued her friendship. "I'm not—"

"Don't lie to me, Greg, I hate it when men lie to me," Catherine interrupted.

He cracked a soft smile. "Have you always been so intuitive?"

"When you're married to a liar for as long as I was, and your job is to read people, you kind of pick it up," she replied.

"Grissom says your job is to read the evidence," Greg pointed out.

"Grissom and I differ on that point," Catherine answered. She tilted her head up and looked down at him, like a mother examining her child to make sure he looked alright. She smoothed a cowlick in Greg's hair and tucked a tuft of hair behind his ear before smiling. "Well you look good."

"I always look good," Greg returned.

"You smug little bastard," Catherine smirked. "Do you need a minute?"

"Or twenty," Greg said.

She nodded. "OK, hon," she said. "But don't take too long. There are only so many excuses Warrick and I can think of to explain why you haven't been to see him yet." Catherine turned to the door to Nick's room when Greg called after her again.

"Hey, um, Cath?"

She paused, then turned to look at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"

"Have you ever… been scared? Like this?" He needed someone to understand. He needed someone to realize _why_ he was so terrified of seeing his best friend like that.

Catherine smiled sadly at him and nodded. "Too many times," she replied. She took a breath, as if to continue, then closed her mouth and nodded. "This, uh… This one time when Lindsey was five, my marriage was just hanging by a thread, and then… And then she got really sick. Pneumonia. She had a soaring fever, and she was in so much pain. I held her hand through a lot of it, but I have to confess, Greg, there was a time when I wished I wasn't there. I wished I was somewhere else. I wished I didn't have to watch my little girl suffer like that. But you know what, Greg? I stayed by her side at all times, all night, all day, when she finally fell into restless sleeps then so did I. I took more sick days at work for her than I ever have for my own illnesses. Used up my vacation days for the year. The whole time, I was scared shitless, but I did it. Do you know why?"

Greg bit his lip and shrugged halfheartedly.

"I did it because Lindsey needed me to," Catherine replied. "Because if she woke up one time and I wasn't there, it meant I'd failed her. And if she needed me there, than I would be there for her, even though it hurt me to see her writhe in pain like that."

"Do you… Do you think I've failed Nick?" Greg asked. "By not being there?"

Catherine's features softened, the epitome of sympathy as she quickly walked towards her friend and rubbed his arm maternally. "Aw, Greg… No. No, I don't think you could _ever_ fail Nick. Not even if you never go in and see him while he's here. But I think it _would_ mean one hell of a lot if you do see him. I know you're afraid of what you'll see, but if you could just go in there and be there for him…"

Greg smiled at her and nodded. "Thanks, Catherine," he said. "I'll be in there in a sec."

Catherine beamed at him. She paused a moment, then threw her arms around Greg, temporarily knocking the wind out of him as he was surprised. "My God, Greg, I'm so glad you're OK. I'm so glad you're _both_ OK…"

He softly stroked her hair to sooth her, glad that his eyes had shed far too many tears that week to shed any more. "Me too, Cath," he whispered. "Me too."

* * *

"Thanks for calling…" Sara said. "I'll be there, but I might be a little late." 

"You took the night off, Sara. You said you needed time after handling the El Gabany case. What are you doing anyway?" Grissom asked.

"It's personal," Sara replied.

"Are you going to be OK?" Grissom asked. "Because I could put Warrick or Catherine on it if it bothers you too much—"

"No," Sara interrupted, sounding a little too desperate. She forced herself to calm down. "I mean… No. No, I want that case, Grissom, I just… Look, what I'm doing right now has nothing to do with that, OK? Have you made any headway?"

She heard him shuffle some papers on the other end. "Mm, a little. Brass talked to his roommate and his classmates. He was an English major at UNLV. He didn't have any enemies. But apparently he was eating lunch a few days ago on the lawn and someone came and stepped in his food on purpose. Our witness IDed him as someone from his Shakespeare class, Brass is bringing him in later today after we see Nick."

"That's good," Sara said. "It's something." She head a door open behind her and turned around to see the prison guard standing there looking at her. "Hey, Grissom, I gotta go, but I'll see you at the hospital."

"OK," said Grissom. "Take care."

They hung up and Sara looked at the guard with a stony expression before she nodded and he took her into the visiting area. He was leaning back in his chair, fiddling with the cord of the phone when she entered and sat down on the opposite side of the glass, watching him. He cocked an eyebrow at her as she reached for the phone and held it to her ear. "Trevor Savage? My name is Sara Sidle."

"Unless they brought you here for a conjugal visit, I'm not interested." Words like these coming from a seventeen-year-old boy really riled Sara.

"I want to tell you about Islam," she said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a Quran. She opened to a part and looked up at Derrick, who was rolling his eyes. "The Profit Muhammad says… 'Do you know what is better than charity and fasting and prayer? It is keeping peace and good relations between people, as quarrels and bad feelings destroy mankind.'"

"It says that in there, does it?"

"Actually, it says that in the Sahih Bukari, detailing the life of the Profit," Sara replied. "I just thought you ought to know the scripture that the woman you murdered believed in so wholeheartedly. She was fighting for peace, and in one motion you completely destroyed the lives of more than forty people. I hope you know that." The boy scoffed and Sara became angry, slamming her fist on the Quran. "Don't scoff at me, kid, I know punks like you. You're sick in the head. Now I know there's no changing you. I'm not stupid."

"Then what are you doing here?" Trevor asked with genuine intrigue as he leaned forward to see her more clearly behind the glass.

"I'm here because I wanted to see the person who was heartless enough to rape and beat to death a woman simply because she was a little bit different from you. And I… I wanted to know. Have you done this before?"

Trevor tilted his head and looked at her with empty blue eyes. "What do you want me to say, lady?"

"I want you to tell me the truth," Sara replied.

Trevor's tongue shot out like a snake's and slid across his lips before he slowly shook his head. "No. I haven't done this before."

"So why did you do it now?"

"Because the opportunity presented itself," Trevor said with a shrug.

"You really have no sympathy at all for that woman, do you?" Sara asked, breathlessly. "Well what about the sixteen innocent people who have died because of your actions? What about her husband? Her children? She had three, you know. Two boys and a girl. And now, they're orphans because of _you_."

"They're terrorist spawn," Trevor said dismissively with a roll of his eyes.

Sara slammed the book again and hissed through gritted teeth. "They are _children_. And you took their parents away because… Because of some sick and twisted conception that the actions of a few extremists reflect on the society as a whole. Are you fucking _insane_? Would you have done it, if she had been a white woman walking alone on the street? _Would you_?!"

Trevor simply shrugged and shook his head. "Whether you want to see it my way or not," he said, "I did this country a favor. The less of those camel jockeys we got in here, the better."

"And _then_ what, Trevor, huh?" Sara demanded. "You eliminate all the Middle Easterners and _then_ what? Are you going to target the Hispanics? The Asians? The blacks?"

"Why not?" Trevor returned.

"Fucking Hitler wannabe…" Sara muttered, shaking her head. "Fighting for a pure race… You do realize you're a coward, right?"

Trevor cocked an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"

"Yeah," Sara said, nodding. "Instinct teaches us to fear what is different from us. It's intellect that makes us realize that they're not that different after all. And seeing as you're obviously _lacking_ a few parts in your brain, your fear takes over and you give into it. Fight of flight. Now… you're a macho sort of creature, so my guess is, you fight, thinking it makes you look strong. Well you're wrong. Beating an innocent woman to death doesn't make you strong. It makes you a coward. It makes you a coward because it's the weakest thing _anyone_ can do. So just… be _brave_ for once in your life and _learn_ something for Christ's sake!"

She stood up and picked up the Quran, holding it tightly . "I'm going to leave this for you. You can do with it what you will. Trade it, burn it, use it for toilet paper… But on the off chance you'll read it… Then maybe you'll see that there is more than one way to look at the world."

"I thought you already knew," Trevor said, "I can't be changed."

Sara let out a shuddering breath before she nodded. "I know that," she whispered. "But I really want to believe it isn't true." And with that, she hung up the phone. She walked down the hallway and entered the front area, where a receptionist sat in her own cage. Sara approached her, then looked down at the book she held in her hands. She had never been religious one way or another. But still, that monster didn't deserve to lay his paws on that book. So instead she hugged it to her chest, smiled politely at the receptionist, and walked out.

He had been right anyway. He would never change.


	22. After the First Death

_**Author's Note:**_ Short chapter today. Thanks to those of you who checked out my vid on YouTube. Your first story, your first painting, whatever, you're always so proud of it. It's only with experience and hindsight that you become exceedingly critical. But I digress. I'm not even a chapter ahead now (I've been slacking off) but I'll try to keep on schedule and won't be too far behind. I think about two chapters left. I'm surprised so many of you are sad to see this end, but flattered too. Well I'm kicking around a few other story ideas in my head, though I haven't started any of them yet. If you want to talk CSI or stories or politics anything with me, just add me on MSN and I will gladly chat with you. In case you can't tell by my verbose author's notes, I am incredibly self-absorbed and love the sound of my own voice (or my own fingers hitting the keyboard as the case may be). My e-mail is in my profile. But enough of my babble. On with the show!

* * *

_"If I can send the flower of the German nation into the hell of war without the smallest pity for the shedding of precious German blood, then surely I have the right to remove millions of an inferior race that breeds like vermin"_

**Adolf Hitler**

_  
"Racism is man's gravest threat to man - the maximum of hatred for a minimum of reason."_

** Abraham J. Heschel quotes (Jewish theologian and philosopher, 1907-1972)**

* * *

Greg hesitated outside the door. His hand hovered above the doorknob. Could he do it? He had processed a decapitated body that night. The night before that, he had pulled the body of a teenage girl out of Lake Mead. So why couldn't he bring himself to face the living corpse of his old friend? He let out a frustrated growl and turned away from the door. He saw an end table in the hall next to two chairs. On the table were scattered magazines and newspapers. Maybe reading something would calm him down. 

So he sat in one of the chairs and slid down as far down as possible, stretching his legs out in front of him with the hope of maybe tripping some oblivious passerby and grabbed the nearest newspaper.

He regretted the move almost instantaneously as the front page headline wrapped itself around his neck and strangled him.

THE JFP MASSACRE FALLOUT: HATE CRIMES ON THE RISE

Greg's hands were shaking at he stared at the photograph plastered across the front page like it was a photo of a naked celebrity, a delicious scandal that everyone needed to see and gossip about. But Greg thought that the butchered man, with face beaten in and disfigured face, deserved a little more dignity than a drunk Paris Hilton taking her top off for money. He couldn't bring himself to read the article, but he did read the caption. _21-year-old Adam El Gabany was beaten to death on his way back to his dorm from a study session last night._ Greg shivered in a mixture of disgust and pity. After all he'd been through that night, he was surprised that _anyone_ could think that violence would solve anything.

He did remember, though, that Grissom and Sara had taken a case the night before that Grissom had been determined to keep Greg off of. So Greg had playfully tried to get information about the case from Sara, treating their secretiveness as a game, but she had been cold to his playful tricks and it was only as he read that article that he realized why. It said that the boy had been beaten last night, which meant graveyard would have taken the case, not dayshift. And considering this was the first Greg was hearing about this case, he put two and two together in his head and felt instantly nauseous.

"You OK?"

He jumped at the query and looked up to see Sara's soft eyes scanning him for signs of life. He nodded, a little too quickly. "Yeah, I just…"

She frowned at the paper that was open on his lap and took it from him, analyzing the headline with a critical eye. She scanned the article, then looked up at Greg and sighed. "There's a reason Grissom and I didn't want you to know about this."

Greg nodded. "Yeah, I figured," he said. "After seeing that photo…"

Sara wrinkled her nose in distaste. "How did they get that, anyway? I thought Grissom and I had been successful in keeping the photographers at bay…"

Greg shrugged, not really interested in how the photo was attained. "So are you going to go in to see Nick?"

She lowered the paper and smiled kindly at him. "Aren't you?"

Greg looked away from her, his eyes falling on Time Magazine with a picture of some politician or other on the cover. But even Time had a blurb on the now infamous massacre in Las Vegas. Greg and Nick's collective nightmare seemed to have sparked a national interest, and probably even international, considering the ethnic diversity of the victims.

"I bet he wants to see you," Sara's soft voice drew Greg back into their conversation. "I'll bet he's asking about you right now."

"And you," Greg said. "You're not there either. He'll be wondering where you are."

She smiled. "Yeah," she said. "Maybe. But not like he'll be wondering about you."

A door slammed somewhere down the hall and someone was walking away from the closed door before he turned to the wall and hit it hard with his fist, resting his head on his arms. Greg frowned.

"I'll be right back…" he said.

"Greg!" Sara exclaimed, sounding exasperated, but he ignored her as he walked over towards the man.

He tried to catch his eye, and when he spoke, it was in gentle tones. "Mr. Osman?"

He looked up at Greg and for the first time, Greg realized there were tears streaming down his cheek as he shook his head. "Mr. Sanders…" he muttered. He closed his eyes and swallowed. "Yes, how are you?"

"How am _I_?" Greg said. "How are _you_? You don't look to be doing so well."

He tried to laugh, but found that he couldn't, and instead his hands went up and cupped his nose and mouth as he let out a choked sob. "Oh God…"

Greg frowned in concern and reached out a hand to Kareem's shoulders. "Mr. Osman? Kareem? Are you OK?" All he could do was shake his head. Greg bit his lip. "It's Amira, isn't it?"

Kareem took a deep, shuddering breath as he looked up at Greg. "She, uh… She lost a lot of blood. Too much blood… She's… She's gone."

Greg's heart went out to this grieving man. "But… But she held on this long, didn't she?"

Kareem shook his head. "Brain damage… lack of oxygen… she was hanging on by a thread… If they had gotten there a little earlier or if… if she hadn't been shot at all… Oh God, Amira…"

As he sobbed, Greg realized he had no idea what he was supposed to do to comfort him. Hearing about Amira only reminded him of Nick. She had been shot minutes before his friend, and she hadn't survived. And he was afraid to go in and see him? Kareem Osman would never see his wife again, and he had the chance to see one of his best friends alive and breathing and talking…

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Sara watching him intently. He looked at her and nodded before turning back to Kareem.

"Kareem…" he said softly. "I am… so sorry."

Kareem ran a hand through his hair and wiped away his tears as he shook his head. "No, Greg Sanders," he said, smiling through his tears. "I… appreciate the empathy. But you were…" He nodded. "You are a fine man."

Greg grinned at him. "Thank you, Kareem. That means a lot."

Kareem continued to nod. "Go see your friend," he said.

"I'll tell him you said hi," Greg replied.

He felt something warm enclose his hand and looked down to see Sara's slender fingers clasping it. She gave it a squeeze and he looked up at her.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

He looked briefly back at Kareem, whose eyes were closed as he tried to compose himself, then nodded. Sara led him back over to Nick's room before slowly pushing the door open.

There was the sound of chatter, which immediately quieted as they all saw the door open slightly and Sara's bright face looking back at them. Nick was propped up in the bed, his face pale, but his eyes as alive as she had ever seen them, and this fact made an ocean of relief wash over her. They were all there. Warrick had pulled a chair up to Nick's bed and looked very comfortable there, smiling genuinely for the first time in weeks. Catherine stood on the opposite side of the bed, every now and then straightening out Nick's sheets or gently touching his arm as though to reassure herself that it really was him. Grissom stood a little farther from the bed, but he kept Nick under a watchful gaze. Brass stood near the foot of the bed, laughing lightly. Sofia was there, too, as she sat in a chair by the wall. All attention was focused on Sara as she propped the door open and looked over her shoulder expectantly.

Soon enough, a timid Greg stepped into the door frame and took a deep breath as he stood next to Sara and looked at Nick with stoic eyes. He nodded a very impersonal hello with a straight face, which Nick returned with an amused grin.

"Hey there, Greggo."

His scratchy voice made Greg cringe, but he quickly relaxed at another squeeze from Sara's hand. He raised his hand and waved at Nick. "Hi."

"Where've ya been?" Nick asked.

He hadn't meant to blurt it out. He had searched his brain for a joke, some sort of faithful quip to use to make the situation a little less awkward, but instead he had found the one fact Nick didn't need to hear, at least not at that moment. "Amira Osman is dead."

The tense silence that invaded the room left an unpleasant stench in their nostrils as they all wrinkled their noses and looked away from Greg. All but Nick.

"Well that… sucks…" Nick said slowly.

Greg started laughing, awkwardly at first. He ran a hand through his hair and nodded. "Uh… Yeah. Yeah, it really does. But you're OK."

Nick broke their gaze as his eyes darted to his right. "Yeah."

Greg pulled his hand away from Sara and stepped forward, his eyes wide as he was determined to rectify his grave mistake. "Nick, I…"

"Would you guys mind if… I talk to Greg here alone for a minute?" Nick asked.

They all nodded and filed out one by one. Warrick was last as his eyes lingered on Nick before he closed the door. Greg looked at the door over his shoulder, then to Nick.

"I probably wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for Kareem Osman," Greg admitted. "I saw him outside and I realized… I realized how lucky we both were. To both be alive. And I figured any petty fear I had about… about seeing you, it was irrelevant. It didn't matter because… because you were alive. And I need to take advantage of that fact, while I still can."

Nick smiled at him. "Get over here, you crazy kid. I can barely see you in this shitty florescent light."

Greg laughed and nodded as he approached his friend. When he was close enough, he felt the crisp linen sheets with his fingertips. "I've been having this dream lately…" he began. "Sometimes you're in it. Sometimes you're not. Mostly, though, it's her."

Although her name hadn't come up at all in their conversation, Nick somehow knew instinctively who Greg was referring to. "You made her last few hours happy ones, Greg," he said. "You gave her someone to love. And you should _never_ regret something like that. It's the best thing you can do for a person."

"She was killed because we were careless and we… gave into temptation. And they didn't like it…" Greg bit his lip. He shook it off. "But you feel it too, don't you? That everything is different now. Each death used to be just another death. And we needed that in this profession. That detachment. The way we could watch the news or read in the paper about a plane crash that killed three hundred people, maybe crack a joke to lighten the mood and then move on with our busy day. But it's not just another death anymore. After the first death… After that girl, Jessica… They all matter now. Her eyes are like stars, man. Even when the night is gone, you know they're still there. And then Jared, and Neil, the mother of that little girl… And Claire. How can you shoot a pregnant woman, Nick, and _still_ believe you're doing right?"

"They weren't doing right, Greg," Nick said. "They may have deluded themselves to think they were. But in the end, they just wanted revenge. And I think Hassan realized that. His brother was a lost cause."

"Sometimes… I wonder if maybe I wouldn't have done the same thing, if I was in their position…" Greg shivered. "And that… really scares me, Nick."

"Nah," Nick said. "Nah, you wouldn't have done the same thing, Greg. Because you're different people. Different temperaments. You're not the vengeful type."

"I don't know anymore…" Greg said, shaking his head. "I mean, if someone had raped and killed… Sara or Catherine, I really don't know what I would do, Nick."

"Even so," Nick said, with only a minor stutter as he tried not to imagine this horrible scenario. "You still have other friends who wouldn't _let_ you do that. Me and Grissom and Warrick— We wouldn't let you do anything like that."

Greg grinned at him and closed his eyes. "I'm glad you kept your promise, Nick. I don't know if I'd be able to get through all this… without you."

"Hey, Greggo, you and me both," Nick said with a laugh.

Greg looked at Nick a moment, just smiling before he remembered something and reached into his jacket pocket. "Oh yeah, uh…" He pulled out an envelope. "I left yours at home, actually, but this is my official invitation from the mayor. The city is having a memorial for the people who… who died that night. It's next Monday. I can talk to the nurses about maybe getting you up there. Unless you don't want to go…?"

Nick took the envelope and traced the gold engraving with his fingers. His lips were set in a straight line as he read the somber text. A list of fatalities tumbled out of the card as he opened it up. He scanned it, then looked up at Greg. "Hey," he said, seriously. "You're not on this list."

Greg frowned at him, confused. "Nick, those are fatalities, and I'm not—"

"Then stop acting like it," Nick interrupted, his eyebrows raised to emphasize his solemnity. "Ya hear?"

Greg took a deep breath then nodded as he smiled at his friend. "So are you coming? Because I'll only go if you go."

"Bull shit," Nick spat. "You'll go whether I go or not, I have connections to ensure it."

"Please, Nick?" Greg didn't want to get on his knees and beg, but he would.

But Nick was smiling. "Yeah," he said. "Of course I want to go."

If Greg wasn't so afraid of breaking his friend, he would have thrown his arms around him in a gigantic bear hug right then and there. "You're the best, Nick."

"Well, you know, I try," Nick replied.

"OK," Greg said. "I lied, you're not _that_ good."

"Don't try to downplay it now, Greg, you said it and it's true," Nick said as he stretched.

"I missed this," Greg said. "I missed you."

"Ditto, kiddo," Nick returned. "You wanna call in the others now?"

"Sure," Greg said. "Just tell me one thing first."

"Yeah?"

"Are you as fucked up inside as I am?" The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could think of a more politically correct way to phrase it.

Nick had to laugh a little, but it hurt, so he quickly stopped. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, Greg, I really am."

"Well that's good to know," Greg said. "Because it would suck if you were still sane and I wasn't. I might have had to come here every day to try and drive away your sanity just so I could have some company in those padded rooms."

"Believe me, Greg, you'll have plenty," Nick said. "But I'm just trying to…" He searched for words.

"Stay alive?" Greg supplied. "I know. Me too."

Nick nodded at him appreciatively. "Well at least we can be crazy together, eh? Now come on. I haven't seen Sara in forever, I need to make sure she's been giving you a hard time."

Greg nodded, then went quickly to get his friends. After talking with Nick, he felt as if a giant lead blanket had just been lifted off of him. Everything was lighter, and brighter, and he no longer felt so alone. Seeing Nick strapped to machines hadn't been as bad as he anticipated, but hearing him speak had been the best medicine he could have asked for. They may both have been going crazy, but at least they had company, and, Greg thought, _You know what they say about misery…_

But misery was the last thing on his mind as he saw his friends crowded outside the door to Nick's room and grinned at them all, finally resembling his old self as he invited them back inside.


	23. Umbrellas

_**Author's Note:**_ I got this killer crazy idea for a supernatural thriller yesterday that got me really stoked. Anyways, as of now it's called "Nevada Devil" and may change but whatever, it looks to be my next endeavor. One more chapter after this. I think. I haven't actually _written_ it yet. Thanks for reading this really long story.

* * *

_"Time can heal all wounds but the reminder of a scar will stay."_

**A Newfound Glory, "_Tell Tale Heart"_ from the album "Nothing Gold Can Stay."**

* * *

The way the rain came down, Greg thought the stars were crying. And though he was safe from the wet pellets, he still heard them pelt the black umbrella he held over Nick and himself. He stood behind Nick's wheel chair as the mayor gave a speech, dedicating a fountain in the park they were in to the victims of what was now being called the JFP massacre. Carved on the rim of the fountain were the names of all those who had lost their lives. The names of the seven survivors were carved into bricks that surrounded the fountain. For some reason, Greg thought it was unfair that neither Farah nor Hassan Ibrahim's were among the names of the victims. 

Greg didn't like seeing his and Nick's names carved in stone. It reminded him too much of headstones and almost sent his head on a strange out-of-body experience. He felt like he was staring at his own grave. He was only half listening to the mayor's speech. He was far more interested in reading the names that surrounded the rim of the fountain. He didn't recognize all of them, but far too many struck a cord deep inside him that sent out low vibrations of a mournful song. Next to each name were their birth and death years, as well as a symbol of whatever religion, if any, they belonged to. Greg recognized the Jewish, Christian and Muslim symbols, but saw a few that he didn't know as well. He named those he knew in his head.

Claire Berkowitz 1974-2007, Star of David. Jonathan Bernstein 1979-2007, Star of David. Amy Calloway 1982-2007, Cross. Lara Chang 1969-2007… Amanda Cohen 1987-2007, Star of David. Anthony Delfino 1966-2007, Cross. Aaron Kheder 1973-2007, Crescent Moon and Star. Arthur Kipps 1953-2007, Cross. Naguib Mohammed Mahfouz 1958-2007, Crescent Moon and Star. Jessica McNamara 1971-2007… Amira Osman 1976-2007, Crescent Moon and Star. Richard Papadopulos, 1961-2007… Isabella Marisol Perez 1975-2007, Cross. Kyle Schwartz 1980-2007, Star of David. Jared Silverman 1985-2007, Star of David. Neil Silverman 1991-2007, Cross. Rhonda Stone 1966-2007…

It fascinated him to see that no single race or religion had been singled out for death. It wasn't a genocide so much as a random selection of human beings. Greg found it ironic that men filled with so much murderous hate didn't discriminate in who their victims were.

A word of the mayor's speech caught Greg's ear and his attention turned to that again. The word was 'heroes' and he had wondered why the mayor had used it. He was gesturing at Nick and the other surviving hostages, none of which were looking directly at the mayor except for Greg and Simon. Greg knew that none of them felt like heroes. If they could help it, if it could bring back all that they had lost, they would gladly trade in the title of 'hero' and go back to being average, everyday people. None of them had asked to be heroes. And if they had known all that they would have to sacrifice in order to be called 'hero,' they would never have accepted such a grand responsibility.

Greg looked down at Nick in front of him. He was staring at the bubbling water of the fountain as though hypnotized by it. Greg wished he was telepathic so he could know what Nick was thinking. His friend had said little of the incident in the brief time that he had been awake. He figured that they were both trying to move on.

Nick wasn't the only one with an obvious injury. In addition to his missing arm, Lt. Simon Rivers also wore a bandage around his head now. He was clad in his formal uniform and was the only one among them who looked like a real hero in Greg's opinion. He was hanging on the mayor's every word with a stiff back as though ready to salute at any moment. This brought a small smile to Greg's lips. Simon seemed to feel Greg's gaze as his eyes were the only part of his rigid body that moved to meet Greg's. He gave Greg a lopsided grin and winked, the other side of his face remained straight in a disciplined manner. Greg laughed quietly to himself before scanning the rest of the survivors.

Noah was alive, although he looked like he should have been dead. There was a bandage wrapped around his arm from where the bullet had wounded him early in the night. In addition to that, he also had a bandage around his head, holding a large gauze against his left ear. Greg wondered if Noah could still hear anything out of that ear anymore. He also wondered if Noah even cared. Out of all the survivors, he seemed the most ghost-like. He seemed lost without Claire, and different to Greg as well. They had always been by each other's side through the whole ordeal, except when Noah was trying to help everyone else stay down. Greg remembered how he had tried to shelter Eli. He should have been doing something like that. Instead of drawing attention to himself like he did. Noah was a hero, too, because he had tried to sacrifice his own life in an attempt to save everyone else. Had he known that Ali would have shot Claire, he may have reconsidered. Greg hoped that Noah kept his eager personality, but the life in his eyes was completely gone.

Kareem seemed to be in better shape than Noah. His physical wounds were more extensive than Noah's, but the emotional ones seemed to be healing a little better. Though Kareem had been wounded in the shoulder, it hadn't pierced any major arteries and it looked to be healing well enough. And while he, too, had lost a good portion of his family that night, he also seemed to gain something too, three somethings really, which he had decided to bring to the memorial service. A two-year-old girl had her arms wrapped tightly around his neck as he balanced her in his good arm while a slightly older boy quietly swung the hand connected to the wounded shoulder back and forth anxiously, fidgeting in his pockets on occasion. From time to time, when the boy's swing was particularly strong, Kareem would flinch, but did not reprimand the child. The third child looked to be about six or seven, and unlike his siblings seemed very somber indeed as he traced the names in the fountains with his forefinger and a precocious frown on his face. Greg hoped that Kareem would give Farah and Hassan's children a good home. He already knew he would teach them good values.

Eli Eberstark stood stoic near the back of the fountain, trying to stay out of view it seemed. He quivered ever so slightly, but his sharp gaze was focused on the sky as the he watched the rain tumble down from the gray clouds. He looked deep in thought. Greg noticed that Eli seemed relatively unscathed, just like him. Perhaps he had been lucky enough to not be a casualty. He remembered Sara mentioning that only three people had escaped unharmed and he and Sarah Ball had been among them, so Eli Eberstark made sense. Greg was glad for it. A Holocaust survivor has seen enough for one lifetime.

Greg's eyes darted for the seventh survivor but found nothing. Only six were present, and yet there were seven stones. It took Greg a moment to remember that the seventh survivor was in jail. He closed his eyes and thought of the girl he had known as Lucy. He remembered how terrified she had been, shaking like a wet cat. She didn't seem like the type of girl who could take a life, and absolutely nothing like that boy he had ran into back at the lab. How had she gotten caught up in all of that nonsense? Greg firmly believed that she was really a good kid inside. What had she been doing at the JFP anyways? Hadn't she been with that group of kids? She must have cared about _something_. She was a criminal, yes, and she helped murder Farah Ibrahim, but she was still as much a victim as any of them in Greg's opinion, and her incarceration was just another heartbreak in this long and tragic story.

The mayor finally finished his speech and asked for a moment of silence. Everyone else in the crowd looked down, but for the six survivors who didn't seem to move at all. Greg's eyes rested on Nick, who closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Greg squeezed his shoulder, but Nick didn't react to his touch. Nick's hands clenched into fists at the arms of his wheel chair and Greg saw a singular tear silently roll down his cheek. Over the past week he had cried a bit himself, but he had never before witnessed any tear escape from his friend's eye. Greg squeezed Nick's shoulder again to remind him that he was standing just behind him. All Nick did was turn his head to his left, away from Greg's hand. The moment of silence, which Greg was sure was intended to be reverent and contemplative, was in fact agonizing. At least when the mayor had been speaking there had been some noise that he could latch onto, some sound to reaffirm that he was still alive. So he was glad when the mayor began to speak again, even if he still didn't listen.

A few moments later, the service was complete, and the attendees began to mingle and talk quietly amongst themselves. Again, the six survivors, who stood separately from the rest of the crowd, kept to themselves mostly, and didn't speak much. Simon was the first to move, but he didn't lose his militaristic posture as he ducked out from under the umbrella Noah held for him and marched over to Greg who immediately ushered him under his umbrella. Simon held out his left (and consequently only) hand to Greg.

"I just wanted to say that it was a real pleasure meeting you folks, even if it was under bad circumstances," Simon said to them. "But where I'm from, the only real friends are the ones who have your back in the heat of battle and don't run away. You two would both make fine soldiers."

Nick didn't seem to be paying attention, but Greg stared at the proffered hand blankly before looking up at Simon. "What's this?" he asked.

Simon laughed. "This, my friend, is what we call a handshake."

"A handshake," Greg repeated, dully. "After all we went through together and all you can offer me is a lousy handshake?"

Simon narrowed his eyes playfully. "Well what did you have in mind, a box of chocolates? I'm not courting you, Greg, just trying to compliment you. I mean, you're right cute and all but let's just say that in order to be my type you'd need something different between your legs."

Greg couldn't help but laugh. "Well damn, I guess that's just your loss then, isn't it? So how 'bout a hug instead?"

Simon nodded and pulled Greg into a bear hug with his one very strong arm, patting him firmly on the back, a gesture Greg returned wholeheartedly. When they broke apart, they looked down at Nick, whose eyes were now open as he continued to watch the fountain's leaping waters.

"Hey, Nick," Simon said. "You gonna be OK, buddy?"

"I'll be fine," Nick replied curtly, before taking his hands to his wheels and rolling off elsewhere. Greg didn't know whether to follow him or not, but Simon seemed to answer his silent question.

"What are you waiting for, boy?" Simon asked as Greg just watched Nick head away from the crowd. "Your friend needs you!"

Startled into action, Greg looked from Nick to Simon. He handed his umbrella to Simon before instantly jogging after his friend. Though Nick tried to get away, it was fairly easy to catch up with a man in a wheel chair.

"Hey! So what, do you think you're going for a joy ride in that thing?" Greg called after him. "I promised the nurses I'd get you back in one piece, OK, it's the only way they'd let me take you out. Well, that, and I promised to take one of them to dinner."

It had been a joke, but Nick was still cold. "Way to take one for the team, Greg," he muttered bitterly.

Greg walked around the wheel chair and kneeled down in front of Nick so they could see eye to eye. The rain was falling lightly, but neither one of them seemed to care as it dampened their hair and shirts. "Look," Greg said. "Someone told me the other day that you can't just run from your feelings and hope they go away. So how about telling me what you're thinking about?"

Nick shook his head, slowly at first, and then faster as his anger grew. "I don't know, Greg, I just… I hate this. I hate everything, you know? I hate being stuck in a _wheel_ chair, I hate not being able to make a dramatic exit because I move at a snail's pace, I hate the fact that I'm_ hurting_ all the time, but mostly I hate it that too many good people died when they didn't have to and I can't help but think I could have done something earlier to stop it. You know the feds had the snipers there _all night_? If only we had coordinated better on the phone, if only we had planned it better, I could have gotten Ali by the window one _hell_ of a lot earlier. And even when I did find out about the snipers, I could have given the kill order before he shot Amira, before he shot his own _brother_ for Christ's sake. There are so many things I could have done and I _didn't_ do them!"

"It's not your fault, Nick." Greg repeated the phrase that had been whispered to him so many times before.

But it just made Nick even angrier. "I know _that_, Greg, I'm not an _idiot_!" he snarled, making Greg feel like a bit of an idiot himself.

"I'm sorry…" he muttered. "It's just, that's how—"

"I mean… Of course it's not my fault!" Nick continued, ignoring Greg now. "I didn't go in there and shoot a bunch of people, my wife wasn't brutally murdered, my family wasn't run over by tanks or blown up by car bombs or butchered in concentration camps! All in all, I've had a pretty damn good life, you know, minus the whole getting buried underground and stalked and held hostage in a community center thing, but you know, I can get over _those_ things. Nah, Greg, I don't feel _guilty_, I feel _angry_ pure and simple. I'm angry at those stupid kids for killing Farah. I'm angry at Hassan for planting the idea in his brother's head. I'm angry at Ali for twisting it into something it wasn't. I'm angry at myself for not doing anything about it sooner. I'm angry at the feds for not handling it more effectively. I'm angry at Grissom and Sara and Catherine for not processing the evidence faster. I'm angry at Warrick for getting drunk. I'm angry at you for scaring the shit out of me every five minutes trying to get it on with a girl. Hell, I'm even angry at Claire Berkowitz and all the other victims for _dying_ and leaving their families all alone. There are just too many things, too many simple things, that could have gone differently and seventeen people might still be alive today. If Farah Ibrahim had just taken a different rout, if she hadn't been killed, or if Hassan hadn't schemed with his brother, or if they had just stuck to their _word_ and… _Fuck_, Greg, I mean… _Fuck_!"

He let out a frustrated growl and grit his teeth. Greg stayed silent, at an absolute loss for words at Nick's outburst. He hadn't thought of any of this. He'd been stuck in a self-blame rut, but Nick seemed determined to blame everyone else.

Finally, Nick seemed to calm down as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back in his wheel chair. "I'm… I'm sorry, Greg," he said quietly. "I'm not _really_ angry at you. It's just, I feel like… I feel like nobody really did anything wrong and yet things still went bad. Ali killed a bunch of people, but would he have found the excuse to if those brats hadn't killed his sister-in-law? And would the kids have killed _anyone_ if Farah had maybe left her house five minutes later or sooner or took a different route or… It's hate, Greg. Hate like the stuff that's bubbling up inside me right now, perpetuating the cycle, and… And I don't like it."

Greg contemplated these words for a moment, before speaking again. "Yes," he said simply.

Nick looked up at him, frowning. "Yes… what?"

"Yes, it would have happened, one way or another," Greg replied. "Look, Nick, bad things happen all the time, and people filled with so much hate find ways to act on it. If it wasn't the community center, it would have been somewhere else, but Ali was just a bomb waiting to go off, OK? You're the one who told me that most people die for nothing. Needless death is just… just something that happens, Nick."

"I don't want to be a hero, Greg…" Nick whispered, shaking his head.

Greg looked up at the sound of footsteps and saw Eli Eberstark making his way over to the pair of them with another black umbrella in hand.

"Hello," Greg said, to which Eli nodded in reply. The old man held the umbrella over the wet Nick and Greg in order to shelter them from the rain.

"The mayor wants to honor us," Eli said to them. "For bravery. Or something like that."

Greg looked over at the mayor, who was surrounded by reporters and cameras, smiling somberly so they could see he was grieving, but he looked good doing it. Greg shook his head. "I don't want to be a part of that publicity stunt."

"Yes," said Eli with a grin. "Me neither." His gaze drifted down to Nick, who was staring out across the park. He tilted his head slightly and Greg stepped aside. "Every man has a story to tell, Mr. Stokes."

Nick turned his head and looked up at Eli before smiling slowly as he nodded. "Like you, Mr. Eberstark?"

Eli grinned at him. "It has been many years since my time at Auschwitz. My stories have been told and retold in classrooms and lecture halls… I lost my family a long time ago. I try to tell their stories as best as I can. It is how… I deal with it. I tell their stories."

"Thank you, Eli," Nick said.

The corners of his lips twitched and he nodded politely before turning around and heading back to the crowd.

"Hey— Mr. Eberstark?" Greg called, jogging after him. The old man turned and looked at him with raised eyebrows. Greg looked back at Nick, who was watching them intently but out of earshot. He swallowed, his eyes eager and earnest in the gray light of day, the soft rain falling down his face like tears. "Does it ever get any easier?"

Eli looked down at the grass, then up at Greg again. "The pain lessens with time," he replied. "But the memories never fade."

Greg nodded in understanding, squinting at Eli through the rain. "OK," he said. He could accept that. He turned around and walked back over to Nick, who was now just as soaked as Greg was by the rain. Greg began to regret handing his umbrella to Simon.

"Ready to go?" he asked his friend.

Nick didn't speak but simply nodded his reply. Greg turned the chair around and headed towards the path and then the parking lot.

On their way out, Nick saw Noah staring at the fountain with an oddly pensive expression on his face. "Hey, Greg?" he said. "Could you hold up a minute?"

Greg gave him a curious look. "Where do you want to go?"

In answer to this question, Nick took his wheels and headed towards the fountain again. "Excuse me, Noah?" he said, trying to catch the man's eye.

Noah blinked at the water, then his eyes moved to meet Nick's, though the rest of his body didn't even flinch.

Nick took a deep breath, intimidated by this broken man. "When I first talked to you on the phone a few days ago, you were laughing. Even when you found out about Farah Ibrahim's death, you still tried to keep up appearances. You patted your wife's belly, you played the good host, you protected Eli Eberstark like he was your own father. Don't lose that."

Noah blinked at him inscrutably a moment, his eyes murky depths which Nick couldn't begin to fathom. "My wife and child are dead, Nick. That guy you met, the laughing, courteous and caring host, he's dead too. Because the person who made him that way is gone, and she took his future with her."

Nick didn't know how to respond, so instead he reached into his pocket. "You have a pen?" he asked.

"Excuse me?" said Noah.

"It's a stick-like thing with ink that writes on paper?" Nick explained.

The smallest of smiles flashed across Noah's face as he patted his shirt and finally found a pen. "Here," he said, handing it to Nick who took it and immediately scribbled something on the piece of paper he'd pulled out of his pocket.

"And here," Nick replied, handing him the paper and pen.

Noah looked at the paper, which displayed a phone number. "What is this for?" he inquired dully.

"It's for a friend," Nick answered. "For when you need one."

Noah didn't even nod as he put the paper in his pocket. "Good day, Nick Stokes."

Nick held his gaze for as long as he could stand it before taking his cue to exit as he headed back to an awaiting Greg.

"Are you quite finished?" Greg asked, looking annoyed as the rain came down on him. "I'm soaking here."

Nick rolled his eyes. "Well it's not my fault you decided to give up your umbrella."

"Fuck you."

"No thanks," Nick smirked. "Take me home, Greg."

Greg shrugged as he took the handles of Nick's wheel chair and pushed him out towards the parking lot. "No can do, but I can do the next best thing. _And_ I get to see that sweet, sweet nurse again."

"Damn, I hate hospitals…" Nick muttered.

Greg was in his own world. "Wow, she had these eyes, man, and, I mean…" He gestured with one hand in front of his chest before shaking his head to clear it. "What was her name again?"

"Candy," Nick answered with a laugh.

"Riiiight," Greg said. "Sweet like a candy cane."

"She's the one you're taking to dinner?" Nick asked. "So you could get me out here today?"

"Yup," Greg said as they came to the van that he had rented to better transport Nick.

"Real sacrifice there, bro," Nick said as Greg opened the door and pulled out the wheelchair ramp.

"I know, right?" Greg laughed loudly. "You know what the good thing is about driving around with you? I actually get to use the handicapped spots."

He didn't say anything else as he pushed Nick up into the van and locked the wheels.

"Hey, Greg?" Nick said as he watched his friend. "Do you know when I'll be able to, you know, get around without your help?"

Greg shrugged, continuing to secure the wheel chair. "I don't know, Nick, I'm not a doctor."

"I don't like… relying on you like this," Nick said quietly.

Greg stopped and looked up at Nick before smiling broadly. "Aw, Nick," he said. "But that's what we do, remember? We take care of each other." Nick looked away from him, obviously not reassured. He unconsciously rubbed his aching stomach. Greg looked down. "Look, Nick, I know it's hard. But soon you'll move up to crutches and then you'll be walking on your own two feet in no time, I'll bet you anything. And soon after that, we can race, and you'll outrun me and brag about it for a month. And at least you're alive, right? That's the important thing."

Nick turned his head to look at Greg before the ghost of a smile flickered across his face. "Right," he said. "Now get this hunk of junk moving. I'm exhausted."

Greg grinned at his friend and squeezed his knee before stepping out of the car and into the driver's seat. As he started the car, he looked back at Nick in the rearview mirror.

"I'm really glad you're OK, Nick," he said. "Really."

Nick smiled back at him and nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Me too."


	24. God and Family

_**Author's Note:**_ Good news! Ha! I lied! There is actually one more chapter after this. I wrote it today because I was too dissatisifed with this ending. It was a spur of the moment thing. Right now, I'm working on two stories: "Nevada Devil" and an old one I started (but never finished) after Slither called (temporarily) "Bloody Sunday." Summaries (and a preview of Bloody Sunday) will be found in the "Credits" chapter at the end of this whole thing. I don't know which will come first, Bloody Sunday or Nevada Devil, it depends on which one I write fastest, which right now looks to be Bloody Sunday. Bloody Sunday is a humorous mystery action-adventury story while Nevada Devil is a dark supernatural mystery based on the urban legend of the Jersey Devil and an old episode of Jonny Quest (don't ask). Bloody Sunday's humor is very similar to the humor found in "Fine Flowers" in that it tends to be Greg in very awkward/amusing situations. Re-reading it the other day, I found it too irresistable not to take up the torch again if only so I can share the amusing Greg moments with you fine folks. And I think after the pure angst of "Collateral Damage" and the heavy politics of this story, I could use with a good humor fic. ANYWAYS, that was a very long plug, mostly for my devoted fans who've read my other works and have an idea of what I'm talking about. For the rest of you who have taste (haha), just read this chapter, and the next, and you'll have a satisfactory ending (I hope) to a very long story (my longest to date.) Enjoy!

Oh, wait-- also, I want to apologize for the God rant. But there have been rants on everything else. As usual and stated in the proviso, I don't mean to offend anyone with it. It's one of many opinions that are not necessarily mine.

* * *

_"God is not what you imagine or what you think you understand. If you understand you have failed."_

**Saint Augustine**

_  
"_Blessed guardian angel! _Maybe you were right. God has stopped looking. We can't live life as if nothing's changed. To live in the sweet past. To look backwards for our instructions. We have to reach up, beyond the debris, past the future, spit in the eye of the sun, make a fist, and say _no,_ and say _no,_ and say _no,_ and say_… (Beat. Doubts. To herself.)… _No, what if she's wrong?_ (She hurriedly gets on her knees to pray. Vicious, to the crown.) _Dear God, All-Powerful, All-Beautiful, what do I do now? How do I get out of this? Do I have to make a deal?_…_ I'll do anything. I'll spy for you. I'll steal for you. I'll decipher strange angelic codes and mine harbors and develop germ bombs and poison the angelic food supply. DEAR GOD, WHO DO I HAVE TO BETRAY TO GET OUT OF THIS FUCKING MESS?!"_

******Marisol Perez, from Jose Rivera's "_Marisol_," Act Two, Scene One.**

* * *

It was a two weeks after the memorial. 

He had been dreaming that he was in the middle of a battlefield, muddy and sweaty in the trenches. Beside him were his best friends, returning fire from their place in the mud. There were tanks and explosions everywhere. And one by one, the people around him, his best friends were dying.

The first to go down, to his horror, was the man who stood right to his left as he straightened up at just the wrong moment and Warrick Brown was pierced with a stray bullet. For a moment, he wanted to go to his fallen friend, to see if he was alive, but the look in Warrick's glassy brown eyes told him all he need to know. He had to keep fighting, and so he did. Until Catherine Willows stumbled into him, taking short and shallow breaths. He caught her, but she was bleeding all over him and by the time he lowered her to the ground, she was dead.

He didn't have time to mourn her, however, as the bullets continued to fly over his head and he needed to keep fighting. But soon enough he heard a gasp and he glanced over to his left, over Warrick's fallen corpse, to see Sara Sidle clutching at her chest before she, too, fell down just like the others.

He wanted to run to her, too, he wanted to stop this carnage, he wanted to stand up from the trenches and just yell "_Stop!_" to see if anyone would even pay any attention to him. He only had two friends left and they were all dropping like flies. He put his hands in the mud, ready to hoist himself up over the trench when a hand on his shoulder forced him down and he looked up into Grissom's stern blue eyes. The older man opened his mouth to speak when a bullet hit him in the back of his head.

He stared at Grissom's dead body for a long time, wondering what he was going to do now. But then, the battle cry that came from his last friend's mouth made him turn around to see Greg Sanders fighting valiantly against an army of unknown assailants.

"It's amazing, isn't it," Greg said to him over the clatter of bombs and gunfire. "We think we're the good guys but really we're all just bad guys, killing people we rationalize are more bad than we are only because we can't fathom anything else lest we lose our nerve in battle."

Nick blinked at him. "Simon?" he said.

His friend shook his head. "Greg," he replied. "Remember?"

A dull ringing penetrated the deafening sounds of explosions and clattered around in his skull.

Nick rolled over in his bed and moaned, lashing his hand out at the bedside table, looking for an alarm but instead found a vibrating cell phone. He opened his eyes to see he wasn't in his apartment like he'd thought but in a hospital. He rolled his eyes and blinked sleepily at the phone vibrating on the table. He wondered momentarily what it was doing there and then remembered that Greg's nurse Candy had snuck a few of Nick's affects to him when Greg asked her to.

His fingers closed around the cold plastic of the phone and he brought it to his ear, his stomach emanating a dull throb to protest his movement. He didn't even look at the number, assuming it was one of his nocturnal friends thinking he'd been awake. _Probably Greg_… he thought to himself.

"What do you want, you little twerp?" he said groggily into his phone.

There was a pause on the other end, and then Nick heard the smacking of lips. "I shouldn't have called, I'm sorry—"

He didn't recognize the voice right away. He tried to blink the sleep away from his eyes and focus. "No, wait, _I'm_ sorry, I thought you were— Never mind. What's up?" Nick tried to sit up in his bed then winced at the hot flash of pain that shot through him. He held his breath a moment before exhaling and relaxing, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

"I, uh… I'm sorry to wake you. I was just… I just wanted to ask you a question."

_Who the hell is this?_ Nick thought to himself, irritated. He pulled the phone away from his ear to look at the display, but the number was one he didn't recognize. Someone who wasn't in his phonebook. How odd…

"Uh… OK, shoot," Nick said with a shrug.

"Actually, I think that's a poor choice of words right now."

Nick frowned. The man's voice was trembling and he didn't understand why. "Wha…?"

As the man continued to speak, his voice became even less steady and he made little sense to Nick's mind, which was clouded by the residue of sleep. "I, uh… I'm in a bad place here, Nick."

Nick rubbed his eyes, still trying to figure out who he was speaking to. "OK. Define 'bad.'"

"I just… Have you ever felt like… Like it was harder to keep breathing than to just stop?"

In his mind's eye, Nick flashed to his glass coffin and it was like a bucket of cold water had been dumped on his head. He was instantly awake, and logic kicked in. "… Noah? Where are you?"

"At my home," Noah replied. "On Maple Drive. I… I can't, Nick, it's… I mean… I meant it. I meant it with all my heart when I told Ali to kill me. I have _nothing_ Nick. My family, my faith, it's all gone. My whole life, I'd clung to the idea that people believed what they did _for a reason_. That everyone had the power in them to understand each other if they just tried to. Human beings were logical, empathic creatures, and… and that evolution had gifted us with the ability to listen and compromise and overcome our primal instincts to reject what was different, and fear new ideas and opinions. And then, I met Ali Ibrahim and I realized that all of that wasn't true. That people didn't always come to believe what they do out of logic and rationale, no, they do it blindly because that's what the people undeserving of their trust tell them. They believe in violence because it's the only thing they know. They believe in hatred because it's what they've been taught. And instead of listening to the truth, instead of trying to understand, they twist facts to fit their cause. They aren't logical. They're numb. They reject the different and detest new ideas. They aren't evolved past their primal instincts. There are _cavemen_ out there, Nick, living among us, and they are _everywhere_. They're leading our countries, they're bombing our cities, they're in our churches, our synagogues, our mosques, in our classrooms, our colleges, or white-collar workplaces, places of mercy and knowledge; the places we thought we were safe are the places we should fear the most. And I just… I just can't take it. There is no place for people like you and me in this barbaric world, Nick. There's just no room for a man of peace. We're ahead of our time. Renaissance thinkers living in the dark ages. And I'm sick of preaching, I'm sick of giving out fliers and hosting events and promoting tolerance— tolerance! What a word, right? 'I tolerate your existence,' ha! That's really all we're asking when we tell folks to be tolerant, isn't it? 'You don't have to like it, just put up with it.' What bullshit. How can we change the world, Nick, when even people like us are using a word like 'tolerance!' How sick is that?"

There was a long pause as Nick held his breath, waiting for Noah to continue on his rant. On the other end of the phone, he heard a gun cock.

"Noah?!" he gasped.

Noah spoke in bleak tones. "I've lost my wife. I've lost my child. I've lost my faith in humanity. I think I may have even lost my faith in God, Nick. I mean, he and I, we've always been good pals. Or I thought so at least. I remember my bar mitzvah and my Dad said to me that the important part of being a man was to have a good relationship with God. To trust in him, but to not rely on him. To make my own way, but remember his role in my life. I thought I was doing that. I thought he and I were on good terms. I thought I was… I thought I was doing right. But what if I'm wrong, Nick? What if what God wanted all along was what these cavemen are doing? Blind loyalty to His name, whatever name he may be called by whatever person of whatever nationality. Who are we as men to decide what is right, what is God's work, and what is wrong? Who are we as men to try to even _begin_ to think that we have God and the world all figured out? Who are _we_, Nick, who are we to declare who is the ultimate authority on _God_ and _religion_, and which religion has it completely _right_? We assume that God will give us all the answers, that everything we ever needed to know lies in the pages of the Torah or the Quran or the Bible. And we _realize_ that these books give us conflicting answers, but no one asks _why_. This world, this universe, it's all… all a mystery to me. And for once in my life, I'm not afraid to admit that. I don't know anything about God, and I know the Torah inside and out, I've studied the Talmud since I was ten years old, I've even read the Biblical New Testament and parts of the Quran, and I _still_ don't know any more about _God _now than I did before. After all, I'm only human. And He's… He's God. A… an entity of such a complicated design, so far from our miniscule powers of comprehension that we have to fill in the gaps with our own arrogant ideas of what _He_ is, what _He_ wants, because human beings just can't accept not knowing, not understanding…"

His voice trailed off into a whimper and Nick took this opportunity to interrupt him. "Noah, do me a favor, man, just… Put the gun down. OK?"

"No, Nick," Noah said suddenly, his voice clear now. "No, I think… I think talking to you really helped."

Nick pressed the call button by his bed. "Well you've been doing most of the talking, you know. Don't you care what I have to say about this conclusion you've come to?"

"Nick…" Noah said. "The world isn't ready for peace. I don't know if it ever will be."

"Noah, people are stupid, it's true," Nick was saying quickly. "And they're ruled by plenty of powerful emotions and they act on them before they think about what they're doing. But I strongly believe we're all the same inside. And that… That allows for some small sense of forgiveness, right? Whether it's deserved or not? I mean… You're still a part of them. You're ruled by emotions, too. You're about to act on them right now. Where's that cool logic you've been talking about? That rationality? That little voice that comes in and says _No, this isn't good, you shouldn't do this_?"

The nurse showed up and saw Nick on the phone. She gave him a curious look as he raised his eyebrows at her, telling her to stay and listen.

"Noah… Noah Berkowitz on Maple Drive, just do me a favor, man. Listen to that little piece of logic, OK? Just put the gun down." The nurse gave a start at that phrase and Nick nodded at her encouragingly. She left the room. "You may not think so, but you've done a lot of good. You've helped a lot of people. You've helped _me_, OK? You _do_ make a difference."

"Maybe that's true," Noah admitted. "But I still don't want to do it anymore, Nick. I'm… I'm done. I just wanted to say… thanks. For being one of the good people in this world."

"Noah, wait, you called me for a reason—"

But the thundering clap that exploded in his ear stifled his last attempt to save a good man. Nick took a deep breath and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the headboard. There was silence on the other end of the phone and Nick quietly hung up. The nurse reentered the room.

"The police are on their way," she told him.

Nick shook his head as he continued to stare at the ceiling. "It doesn't matter now," he said. "He's already dead."

* * *

The next day began grimly. But Greg always had a way of putting a positive spin on anything. If Nick could rely on him for anything, it was that. Greg sat silently at his bedside, staring at Nick's sheets, trying to find the words that would make him smile, make him realize that there were still so many beautiful things in life worth taking advantage of. 

"Well… Maybe he finally found the answers he was looking for," Greg said. "You know, like… Maybe it's all not a big mystery anymore. Maybe he finally understands God."

Nick said nothing as he stared out the window. "You think the dead understand God more than the living, Greg?" He looked at his friend, who shrugged in reply.

"I don't know what the dead understand and what they don't," he said honestly. "I'm just trying to put a positive spin on a bad situation."

"You're good at that," Nick noted with a small smile.

Greg grinned at him. "But guess what," he said. "Your physical therapist says that you're doing good on your crutches, and that you should be able to go home today."

"You're kidding!" Nick exclaimed happily, his eyes lighting up.

Greg shook his head vigorously. "Nope," he said. "And we even have a little party planned."

"Party?" Nick said. "Where?"

Greg looked to the door. On cue, it was pushed open and there stood Warrick, holding a bottle of Bacardi rum. A slow grin flittered across Nick's features.

"Warrick, you dog," he barked.

Warrick wasn't alone. As he stepped into the room, he was followed by Grissom, Sara, Catherine and Brass who all looked happy to see him awake.

" Sofia's on call," Brass explained. "Otherwise, she would be here."

Nick nodded, then turned to Greg, who was displaying a pair of crutches to him. He took them eagerly and Greg helped him out of the bed and up on his feet. He looked around at all his friends gathered in this stale hospital room, feeling the warmth radiate from their glowing smiles, all of them happy that everything had turned out for the best.

For them at least.

Nick and Greg both knew that they had been obscenely lucky to escape that community center together and alive. And they thanked God, whatever He was, every moment of every day. The two friends looked at each other and exchanged knowing smiles. They would forever be bound like brothers from the experience they had to suffer through together. Nothing tests a friendship like a near-death experience, and Greg and Nick had been surrounded by death, so close that they had both even reached a finger out to touch its billowy cloak.

But they were OK now. As OK as they could get. And this was one family that not even the Devil himself could break. As Warrick poured the rum and Nick made a crack about not wanting to share, they laughed and talked about idle things. No one would remember the jokes that were made or the stories exchanged. But they would remember the comfortable joy they felt just being near the ones they loved.

As Nick laughed at some story Catherine told about Lindsey, Greg put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey," he said to Nick quietly, so only they could hear. "Who knows anything about God, right? It's all about the moments. All the little moments that make life worth living. If you ask me, _that'__s_ where God is. And if Noah didn't have those moments anymore, then maybe it was the only thing he thought he could do. But the important thing is, we still have those moments, those stolen smiles, those quiet snickers, seizing those half-seconds of saying, 'Hey, life is good' before going on with your day. And I owe that to you, Nick."

Nick grinned and ruffled Greg's hair. "Yeah," he said. "You owe _everything_ to me. Including twenty bucks."

Greg cocked an eyebrow. "I seem to recall I paid that debt a few weeks ago…"

Nick thought a moment, then shook his head. "No, no, you gave me four dollars and thirty-two cents, plus a button you tried to pass off as a quarter and a piece of lint you claimed came from Calvin Coolidge's bellybutton."

"Come on, that lint's gotta be worth twenty bucks easy," Greg said.

"If it were actually from Calvin Coolidge's bellybutton and not the lint catcher in your drier," Nick said.

"It could have been Coolidge himself," Greg argued. "I mean, the atoms in his body might have decomposed and then gone into the soil, and then seeped into the grass when some sheep came along and ate it and then the sheep was sheered and the wool made into the shirt that went into my drier and voila! Coolidge in lint form! A miracle."

Nick smacked Greg's ear. "You're an idiot."

Greg smirked as he rubbed his ear. "I'll pay you Tuesday?" he said timidly.

"You best," Nick replied.

They both turned to the conversation and joined in, reveling in the closeness of family.


	25. A Candle in Alabaster

_Let them in, Peter  
__For they are very tired  
Give them couches where the angels sleep  
And light those fires  
Let them wake whole again  
To brand new dawns  
Fired by the sun  
Not war-times bloody guns  
May their peace be deep  
Remember where the broken bodies lie  
God knows how young they were  
To have to die_

_Give them things they like  
Let them make some noise  
Give dance hall bands not golden harps  
To these our boys  
Let them love Peter  
For they've had no time  
They should have bird songs and trees  
And hills to climb  
The taste of summer  
And a ripened pear  
And girls as sweet as meadow wind  
And flowing hair  
And tell them how they are missed  
But say not to fear  
It's gonna be all right  
With us down here_

**"Prayer to St. Peter"**_  
_**By Edwin McCain  
Based on the Poem by Elma Dean**

* * *

_Two Months Later…_

Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead and fell to the pavement, sizzling instantly on contact in the hot sun. He heard his running shoes echo as they hit the ground and his lungs felt like they were on fire. But regardless, he strained his muscles and steeled himself for another burst of speed as his friend came level with him. He had no intention of winning, but he wasn't going to lay down and let Nick walk all over him either.

"Ready to lose?" Nick panted next to him.

"Like hell I am," Greg retorted and sprinted on ahead down the lane, feeling a little too complacent about showing off like that. Nick had been shot, he should cut him a break. But his competitive instincts were kicking in. Even if he made himself lose to Nick in the end, in his head he'd like to know that he could at least beat his friend if he wanted to. He felt almost like he lived in Nick's shadow in most of the things he did. He'd be happy just to feel like he could beat Nick in a foot race, if it really came down to it.

The designated finish line came within view, Greg thought that maybe it was time to drop back a little and allow Nick to pass, but just as this thought graced his mind, Nick pulled up level to him again, and then sprinted past him and Greg stared at him with wide eyes.

_No_, he thought to himself. _The only way you're going to win is if I _let_ you win, you son of a bitch!_

Gritting his teeth, Greg pushed his body to go at top speed, but it was a second too late. He cross the finish line just half a second after Nick and in his annoyance, he ran into his friend from behind and they both toppled onto the grass. Greg hit him in the back.

"You asshole, I had you!" he panted as he rolled off of him and onto his back. Nick rolled over and propped himself up on one arm, breathing heavily as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

"Oh come off it, Greg, I know you let me win," Nick said with a smirk.

Greg opened his mouth to spit back that he in fact _hadn't_ let Nick win, but then pride made him close it again and he smirked smugly. "Yeah, I let you win."

Nick nodded, still panting. "Yeah, I saw you slow down a little back there when I passed you. You didn't have to do that, you know."

"Are you kidding?" Greg gasped. "You deserve bragging rights."

"Right…" Nick said, shaking his head. He fell back onto the grass and stared at the clouds. "I like it here," he said. "It's quiet."

"It's a graveyard," Greg said. "It's not like the residents are very talkative."

"What is it about us and dead bodies?" Nick asked rhetorically. "We can't seem to get away from them."

"We're necrophiliacs," Greg joked.

Nick rolled his eyes, but didn't speak, too tired to think. "Wow, I haven't ran like that in…"

"Months?" Greg supplied. "Yeah, me too, I'm all out of shape."

Neither friend said a word as they both made shapes out of the fluffy clouds that floated by lazily above their heads. Their minds relished the oxygen their bodies gasped in, trying to understand the euphoria induced by the endorphins their workout had produced. As they regained their grip on reality, their minds became cluttered freeways for thoughts.

"Sara has been… teaching me Arabic," Greg said.

"I didn't even know Sara spoke Arabic," Nick replied.

Greg grinned. "She doesn't," he told him. "Which only makes the lessons that much more interesting."

"So what did she teach you?"

"How to say 'fuck off' and call someone a whore," Greg replied.

"I'm sure that will come in handy when you're traveling," Nick mused.

The quiet returned and they each closed their eyes as they laid there peacefully, letting the cool air rush over their very still bodies and bathing in the sunlight. If an undertaker came by at that moment and saw them, he may have thought that he'd forgotten to burry two corpses if not for the fact that their faces were flushed with color. They reveled in the quiet of the necropolis, hearing the occasional bird chirp and the rush of wind by their ears. Though their conversation was a silent one, they were content to participate in it, comfortable enough with each other to not say anything at all.

After a moment, Greg decided to speak again. "She also taught me how to say hello and goodbye."

"Did she now?" Nick muttered lazily, sounding half-asleep.

"Yeah…" Greg's eyes fluttered open and he stared up at the cerulean sky above him. "Salam alekum, that's hello. And if you want to reply, you reverse it, like… Alekum salam. You know what that means, Nick?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me regardless," Nick replied with a sigh.

Greg continued. "It means… 'Peace be upon you.' And the response is 'And also with you,' you know. I just… I just thought it was funny, you know? Like… because they were all… saying it, on the phone and stuff, as a greeting, you know, but it's like… they were terrorists and killing people and it was all 'Peace be upon you!' like they… like they meant it or… it was odd, that's all." Greg knew his words were coming out all jumbled. He blamed his tired mind. He turned his head to look at Nick. "Don't you think that's odd?"

"Mm…" Nick intoned wearily.

Greg looked back at the sky again. "And it's funny because… because 'goodbye' is masalama and it's pretty much just… 'peace,' you know? Or… or that's what Sara said anyway, I don't know. I just think it's funny when you say goodbye to someone, you say 'peace!' Like… oh, never mind." He knew that if he couldn't even make sense of his thoughts in his own head, speaking them aloud would be a very bad idea.

So again, a soft blanket of silence draped itself over them and they savored its warmth. Greg felt his eyes drooping himself as his muscles began to throb dully.

A few minutes passed before he spoke again. "We should really stretch or something."

"Yeah," Nick agreed sleepily.

Neither of them moved for two minutes.

"No, I mean, really," Greg repeated, staring up at the sky. "We'll cramp up."

"Uh huh…" Nick mumbled.

Greg propped himself up on his elbow. "Nick?"

"What?" Nick said, sounding irritated he kept interrupting their silence.

"I didn't let you win."

Nick opened one eye and looked at him warily. "What are you talking about?"

Greg was looking serious. "I was… going to. But then you beat me before I could really… You won. All by yourself. You got shot and you can _still_ beat me at practically anything."

Nick favored him with a tired smile as he propped himself up on his forearms. "Silly Greggo," he said, shaking his head. "You'll have me beat in chess any day."

"Oh yeah…" Greg muttered, as if just remembering.

Nick fell back down on the grass and closed his eyes again.

"No. Dude. We should really get up and stretch," Greg said, sitting up.

"You go ahead, I'll catch up with you," Nick muttered.

Greg rolled his eyes as he painfully got to his feet and started walking off the accumulated tension his muscles had gathered during his rest. He shook out his legs and his arms, stretching out his neck from side to side. He didn't know exactly where he was going until his feet took him there, as though they were guided by a ghost. He had no idea how else he could have stumbled upon such a place; he had never been there before. And yet, somehow, out of all the hundreds of gravestones in that cemetery, he had to stumble across this one.

There were no flowers on her grave, withered or alive, and Greg found this to be an insult to his memory. And so, improvising, he harvested a few dandelions and wild daisies that grew nearby and tied a blade of grass around them in a makeshift bouquet. He laid the small token of his love down reverently.

"I'm, uh, sorry I couldn't do any better," he said to her ghost, if she was listening. "But, uh, it was kind of a spur of the moment thing. You know, kind of like how we got together. I promise, I'll do better next time."

He smiled to himself and kneeled down, tracing the name engraved in the marble. "Isabella Marisol Perez, huh?" he said quietly. "So that was your full name. Huh. It's… really pretty. I bet you got that line all the time, didn't you? 'You have a pretty name. Will you go to bed with me?' Yeah, I know, sometimes I'm not very funny, but people tend to laugh anyways at my stupidity. Well… I'm glad I know that now. Your name. I feel closer to you. My last name is Sanders. Greg Sanders. I figure it's only fair you know my name, as I know yours." He licked his lips, his tone changing. "I'm sorry you had to die, Isabella. I'm sorry all of you guys had to die. You and Jared and Neil and Claire and everyone else. It just wasn't fair at all. But if there's one thing I've learned it's that life doesn't tend to play fair. God is a curious guy, isn't he?"

He looked around, for any other visitors that may be around, but found that he was utterly alone.

"What's it like in heaven, Isabella? I can't imagine an angel like you would be anywhere else. Are you playing poker with Gandhi? I think when I die, I'll want to play chess with Albert Einstein. I bet I'd whoop his ass."

Greg rose to his feet again, his eyes still on the words carved in her tombstone. "You said you didn't have any family. That if you died, no one would miss you except your cat. Well… Well, I miss you, Isabella. I just… I just wanted you to know that. That's all." He began to walk away when he hesitated, then shot the tombstone an annoyed look before turning to face it again. "Oh, and one other thing," he said, shaking a finger at it. "Stop haunting my dreams. It drives me crazy, you and your riddles. It would just be swell if you stayed out of my head when I dream. God knows you're in it enough when I'm awake. OK?"

He waited for a reply, some sign that maybe she heard him. He didn't know what he expected. The wind rustling his hair suddenly, a clap of thunder… something. But nothing happened. And Greg was a little disappointed. Sighing, he turned around and headed back towards Nick, who was right where he left him, flat on his back in the grass.

Greg cocked an eyebrow as he looked down at his friend, before kicking him softly in the gut. Nick didn't open his eyes, but he frowned.

"You know, I was shot there."

"So what, are you going to use that excuse forever?" Greg asked. "Get up, stretch it out, or if not then don't complain to me when you cramp up tomorrow morning."

"OK," Nick agreed, rolling over to get more comfortable. "I won't complain to you. Now would you leave me alone?"

"Nick, if you fall asleep in a graveyard, someone will want to burry you." Greg realized what he'd said a moment too late as Nick's eyes opened, but he didn't move. Greg cursed himself and rolled his eyes. "I mean…"

"No, it was funny," Nick said, though he wasn't laughing.

The silence that befell the two friends then was far from comfortable. Greg reached out a hand to help Nick up and he took it.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, stretching a little. "Damn, you were right."

"Aren't I always?" Greg quipped with a smile that chased away any awkwardness between them.

"Where'd you go anyway?" Nick asked as he stood on one foot and stretched his quadriceps.

"To visit an old friend," Greg replied simply.

Nick hopped onto his other foot to stretch his other quads. "We have way too many here, Greg, you'll have to be more specific."

Greg's smile was slight, but peaceful. "Isabella," he said. "I think we have an accord. I'll bring her flowers, and she won't invade my dreams anymore."

Nick's eyes sparkled as he grinned. "You know, I see her in you," he said. "She shines through you. Like… a candle. In alabaster, you know?"

Greg blinked at him. "What did you say?"

"You know how if you put a candle in an alabaster vase, unlit it seems opaque, but when you light it, the light comes through as though its made of glass?"

"Mm…" Greg muttered, his eyes wandering. _I filter through you like a candle in alabaster. And when the funeral flowers are gone, the days will continue to go on…_ _You must never stay forgotten for too long, querido. There's a perfect graveyard of broken strangers like you who stayed forgotten for so long they forgot their way home again._

"Greg?" Nick's voice brought him back to the moment and Greg blinked at him. Nick sighed with relief. "I thought I'd lost you there for a moment."

Greg grinned at him. "So," he said. "Are you ready go head back?" He looked at his watch. "Shift starts in an hour."

Nick nodded. "Let's get to work," he said.

**THE END**

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_ Catch me in the "Special features" chapter. ;o)  



	26. Special Features

_**Author's Note:**_ Hello! Did you miss me last chapter? Ha, well, since this whole chapter is just credits and extra material, I call it the Author's Note of the century, so I figured I'd let you off the hook with the last chapter. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed the story and learned a few things, or were spurred into going out and learning a few things (read a lot from different sources, you get a more unbiased idea that way). Some other sources are credited here, as well as a few other "Special Features" goodies. I should make DVDs. 

**UNUSED QUOTES  
**

_I had these in my "gathered quotes" notepad for Salam that just never seemed poignant enough to ever really use. So instead I post it here._

"Since coming to Duke, I've become more conservative regarding the Middle East. I truly believe that a threat to the security of Israel is a threat to Jews all over ... especially in the U.S."—Livia Fine, Duke University junior

"I am for the United States being involved, and I hope that the United States will keep its commitment to Jordan, to the Palestinians, in accordance to what was said to them."--Yitzhak Rabin

"I believe, too, that we will prevail over them. We have known terrorist attacks in the past, and I am afraid there is no hermetic solution to terrorism."--Yitzhak Rabin

"I believe that it is my responsibility as the prime minister of Israel to do whatever can be done to exploit the unique opportunities that lie ahead of us to move towards peace. Not everything can be done by one act."-- Yitzhak Rabin

"America and Israel share a special bond. Our relationship is unique among all nations. Like America, Israel is a strong democracy, a symbol of freedom, and an oasis of liberty, a home to the oppressed and persecuted."-- Bill Clinton, Former US President

"I'm killed instantly. Little blazing lead meteors enter my body. My blood cells ride those bullets into outer space. My soul surges up the oceans of the Milky Way at the speed of light. At the moment of death, I see the invisble war."-- Marisol Perez, from Jose Rivera's "Marisol."

" I can't be home tonight, I'll make it back it's alright  
No one could ever love me half as good as you  
Gotta badge for my scars just the other day  
Wore it proud for the sake of my sanity  
I could see the flames burn bright from the windin road  
Like a haunting page from our history  
Watched a young girl cry and her mother scream  
Its the saddest thing when angels fly away"-- Cold, "When Angels Fly Away" from the album "A Different Kind of Pain"

* * *

**RESOURCES/INSPIRATION/OTHER SOURCES:**

_Note: Not all of these are directly relevant to the Palestinian/Israeli conflilct, but deal with racism, history, terrorism and/or politics, or all of the above._

PLAYS  
"My Name Is Rachel Corrie" by Alan Rickman (Author), Katharine Viner (Editor)  
"Marisol" by Jose Rivera  
"Tooth and Nail" by the Junction Avenue Theater Company  
"Stuff Happens" by David Hare

MOVIES  
"Axis of Evil Comedy Tour"  
"Suicide Killers"  
"Schindler's List"  
"American History X"

BOOKS  
"Poems of the Great War 1914-1918" Published by the Penguin Group  
"Night" by Elie Weisel  
"To Kill A Mockingbird" by Harper Lee

WEBSITES  
www.muslimbridges. org  
www.israelipalestinianprocon. org  
http://en.wikipedia. org/wiki/Israeli-Palestinianconflict

MUSIC  
"Long, Long Time" by Guy Forsyth  
"Prayer to Saint Peter" by Edwin McCain  
"When Angels Fly Away" by Cold  
"War on Drugs" by Barenaked Ladies  
"The General" by Dispatch  
"Crisis" by Steven Salisbury (MySpace. Com/StevenSalisbury)  
Rock Against Bush Album Volumes 1 and 2  
And anything by Bad Religion and the Ataris

* * *

**A FULL LIST OF VICTIMS OF THE FICTIONAL JFP MASSACRE**

_In order to keep track of all the 24 hostages and how many were dead and who was dying, I actually indeed gave every hostage a name and even a tiny bit of character definition. It made it easier to count them off as characters rather than statistics. The mother who is one of the first killed? She had a name. Kyle and his girlfriend (the two hostages killed after Ali decides to kill people every five minutes) both had designated religions and first and last names. The religions of the dead are represented in chapter 23 "Umbrellas" next to their names on the stone. Anyways, here's the list, just in case you were curious how I kept track of everyone's death._

ORIGINAL 11  
Neil Silverman, Jared Silverman, Mother (Rhonda Stone), Isabella Marisol Perez, Angry Man (Arthur Kipps), Eli Eberstark, Noah Berkowitz, Greg Sanders, Sarah "Lucy" Ball, Kareem Osman, Amira Osman

KILLED IN STORY  
1) Jessica McNamara (known simply as "Jessica," the first to die), 2) Neil Silverman, 3) Jared Silverman, 4) Mother (Rhonda Stone), 5) Isabella Perez, 6) Angry Man (Arthur Kipps), 7) Kyle Schwartz, 8) Amy Calloway (Kyle's girlfriend), 9) Older Man (Richard Papadopulos), 10) Claire Berkowitz

NON-FATAL CASUALTIES  
11) Nick Stokes, 12) Noah Berkowitz, 13) Simon Rivers, 14) Amira Osman (eventually fatal), 15) Kareem Osman

UNSCATHED  
16) Greg Sanders, 17)Sarah Ball, 18) Eli Eberstark

KILLED OUT OF STORY  
19) Jonathan Bernstein, 20) Amanda Cohen, 21) Lara Chang, 22) Naguib Mohammed Mahfouz, 23) Aaron Kheder, 24) Anthony Delfino (Second last to die next to Amira, he died on the operating table.)

* * *

**COMING ATTRACTIONS:**

_Bloody Sunday:_

**Summary:** The worst day of Greg Sanders' life began when he woke up in the middle of the Nevada desert with no recollection of how he got there. After dealing with irritating colleagues, getting shot at and getting hit by a car, his bad day is capped off when he finds out he's a suspect in a murder he doesn't remember committing. A comical mystery with a clever twist ending. (Yes! It is clever! I laughed with glee when I thought it up, it's not predictable at all!)  
**Rating:** T  
**Pairings:** TBD, currently only team friendship.  
**Available For Reading:** Mid-June, 2007

Greg scratched his upper arm and for the first time realized he was shirtless. He looked down and realized his shirt wasn't all he was missing. "Whoa! Where are my clothes?"

"Easy, Greggo," Nick said, chuckling. "Your shirt and pants are in the car. I told you, we needed to cool you down, put you in a hyperthermia vest, towels on your head neck and lower torso, you know the drill."

"Why the hell do you have a hyperthermia vest just lying around?" Greg asked, noticing it lying beside him.

Nick shrugged. "Once I dated a nurse and she has this thing with hot and cold—"

"Stop talking right now," Greg said, holding up his hand. "My head hurts too much for kinky sex stories."

"Hey Greg?" Sara called, stepping around the side of the Tahoe and holding a swab in one hand and an evidence bag in the other.

"Jesus!" Greg said, standing up quickly. He grabbed the vest and held it in front of him.

Sara smiled at him broadly, and Greg hoped her eyes were closed behind her sunglasses. "Nice boxers," she said casually. "You woke up about a mile east, yeah?"

"Uh… yeah…" Greg said, feeling dizzy again, probably from standing up so fast. He shook his head. "Sara, can I talk to you when I have some clothes on?" he asked, holding onto the side of the car.

Sara held her hands up and turned around. "OK," she said. "There's not much to see anyway."

Greg looked after her in a mixture of umbrage and embarrassment as Nick started chuckling. Greg looked at him. "Please say she didn't see me like this when I was unconscious?"

Nick hesitated. "She didn't see you like that when you were unconscious."

"You're lying," Greg said.

Nick was still laughing as he nodded. "Yes I am."

"Oh, you shut up," Greg snapped as he leaned against the car and slid back to the ground. "Please get me my clothes now."

_Nevada Devil:_

**Summary: **When one of their own is reported missing, Nick and Greg brave the rainy storm to try and find their lost friend. They find her car crashed into a tree, but no sign of her save for a set of footprints in the mud that inexplicably disappear into nothing. Also at the scene, quite disturbingly, they find claw marks and another set of footprints, far too sinister to be human...  
**Rating: **T/M depending on how scary it gets.  
**Pairing:** Again, TBD. Could be Sandle, could be Snickers, hell it could be GSR or it could just be friendship. Probably not slash though (sorry Nick/Greg shippers!). I haven't been in a romantic mood lately.  
**Available For Reading:** August 2007/After "Bloody Sunday" finishes posting, whatever comes first.

If there was one thing in the world Sara Sidle hated more than rainstorms, it was driving in them. Some of her worst memories were when it was raining. It had been raining when her mom killed her dad. It had been raining when she found out her first boyfriend was cheating on her with her friend. And worst of all, it was raining at that very moment, when she was late for work already, and it was pissing her off.

As the windshield wipers swung back and forth like odious pendulums, lightning lit up the sky. As soon as the wipers seemed to clear the windshield, a new torrent of rain would blur her vision again. It was useless trying to see anything. She was driving through a small stretch of forest before coming into the city where the bright lights might help light her way better. As it was, all she had to go on was the dim light of her headlights and the occasional flash of lightening. When caught in her headlights, the bare trees cast sinisterly twisted shadows on the winding road.

On top of everything else, her phone began to ring. Making sure to keep her eyes on the road, she reached into the passenger seat and dug blindly in her purse before finding and answering it.

"What?" she snapped into the phone.

"Well you're the one that's late, you don't need to bite _my_ head off."

Sara rolled her eyes. "Greg, unless there's a specific reason for this call, I'm hanging up in five seconds."

"Where are you?"

"Five…"

"No, seriously," Greg said quickly. "You're an hour late."

"Four…"

"Sara! Where the hell are you and how soon will you be here? Grissom's really—"

"Three…"

"— riding my ass, here, OK, I'm calling on his behalf, not mine, so just leave the attitude—"

"Two…"

"Will you at least be here soon?" He sounded exasperated. Sara felt sorry for him.

"Yes," she said. "It's the rain, and I overslept, so I should be there… er… eventually."

"Eventually isn't soon enough," Greg said.

"Your five seconds are up," Sara snapped, her annoyance returning.

"Hey, if you have a nervous breakdown on your way here, can I have your—"

Click. Sara didn't even want to hear him finish the bad joke. She jumped at another crack of thunder which happened nearly simultaneously with the lightening. She was in the thick of the storm now. To sooth her nerves, she turned on the radio. The station returned nothing but static. As Sara fiddled with the dial to find a station that came in properly, another flash of lightning made her look to the road again, and just in time.

Frozen in her high beams like some deformed, nocturnal deer, stood a creature with wide eyes that reflected the light of her headlights as eerily red. It had claw-like hands and stood on two cloven feet. Sara swerved to avoid it but her car skidded in the water and she ended up slamming right into a tree.

The airbags jammed and her jaw slammed into the steering wheel, knocking it out of place. As she recoiled from this pain she hit her head against the window which cracked under the pressure and sent a jolt of scalding agony rattling through her skull. Her vision bled with varying shades of red as the dizziness encircled her mind.

Looking around for one last time, she saw the wide nocturnal eyes of something beyond her nightmares staring at her through her shattered windshield…

* * *

_**Parting words:**_ This is the very end. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed the story! You guys write some good stuff too (those of you who write) I've checked it out (and if I was a good reader, I ought to have reviewed it... hm...) Anyways, keep writing, keep reading, and most importantly keep watching CSI... I've said that before, haven't I? 

**THE VERY END**


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